Leaves Got Up in a Coil and Hissed
Title: Leaves Got Up in a Coil and Hissed
Fandom: Bones
Author: rachg82
Rating: A light R, if even
Characters/Pairings: Brennan, Booth, Angela, Max, Russ…just about everyone (but not together -- it's not that kind of fic, pervs)
Word Count: About 7,000
Spoilers: Up through the end of the 6th season + a bit of speculation regarding stuff that's come out for season 7.
Disclaimer: This show still isn't mine, though I like to pretend otherwise.
Summary: This fic began eight months ago as a single image in my mind that just wouldn't leave: fifteen-year-old Brennan in an empty house, standing by the door. It slowly evolved from there, delving further into things I'd briefly touched on in previous fics, & ultimately becoming a short series of less-than-linear snapshots. A verbal panorama, if you will.
Note: First, there are a couple mild mentions of self-injury in this fic, so please be aware of that going in. Second, y'all know how I roll, so there are a handful of obvious quotes strewn throughout -- those will be cited at the end. We good? Good.
As always, this rachg82-led foray into Bones Land will come with music. There'll be one to set the tone at the beginning & another to cap it off at the end. (I'll more than likely do another fanfic soundtrack as well, but that will come later)
Enjoy, my peeps!
"There are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. And no one is lying. Memories shared serve each one differently." - Robert Evans
---
---
A single pale hand is rising in the wake:
stop
and look.
The house
opened up wide
and blew everything away.
Just like that.
Here's the church; here's the steeple.
(look again, and see)
Life disappearing
because no one is watching.
That's how it goes.
This is no false alarm.
There are no credits preparing to roll.
This is real.
A portrait is forming in the shadows,
one girl waiting at the door.
The threshold has been broken.
There's no turning back.
Thunder, dizzy, on the march--
her pulse is rushing through her ears,
circling her vision
& tricking the floor.
First it's here, &
then
it's not.
Steady, now.
A riot of paresthesia
keeps dancing beneath her skin.
It doesn't make sense.
The turning of the clock;
their absence;
the sun
rising
& setting
without them.
Where'd they go?
Every minute,
every second
is proof.
Proof of what's real,
proof of what's not,
proof
that what she sees
when she looks in the mirror
has actually been there
all along.
She feels nothing
but raw.
There's an answer for all of it
somewhere,
but no one's asking the right questions.
15 years old,
not quite grown & not quite young,
Temperance Brennan is building a hypothesis
and remains
still.
The word "remains"
can mean many things.
(be a testament)
If your heart is bleeding,
make the best of it.
She is learning a lesson
about how to
hold on.
This
is how you stand
in the eye of a storm,
…don't forget.
Don't let go.
Face to the wind,
both feet on the ground,
her lacy white anklets won't stop slipping.
It's more bothersome than it should be.
She's not sure why she's even wearing them in the first place.
All the same,
there's a high stack of dominoes in her wide-eyed brain,
and it is tumbling,
tumbling
down.
(One by one, they fall)
Her body holds its breath.
It knows this is just the beginning.
Nerves stretched taut,
amp set to eleven,
she likes things to make sense.
A place at the table--this is where I go.
This is why we're here.
This
is what it means
for the fork to be there
and the napkin to be
here
at six o'clock sharp in the evening.
It feels good to belong,
to know what comes next,
to inhale
deeply
& know what to say.
They don't expect her to speak.
They don't mind when she does.
There is no script, but they are her score.
Each note serves a function.
Each life has a beat.
1, 2, 3, 4.
A perfect measure,
no mistakes.
Four right angles make it a home.
Dividing the universe up
by column & row,
networked cells of painted passion
learned by rote;
her world can only be translated at best,
like geometric
equations
composed by a synesthete.
The beauty is logical.
The table is gone.
Her place doesn't exist.
These are the facts
and so much more.
(All the king's horses & all the king's men)
Brace for impact.
It cannot be undone, my friend,
only redefined. That is the truth.
There's smoke on the horizon now,
left behind--a sign, some might say;
murky metaphors sliding
past figurative lips.
She can't understand their meaning,
can't understand
why people won't just say
what they mean
and mean what they say.
Perception is full of lies,
both big & small.
Russ
told her she'd be okay,
told her they both would
in time.
He said it in a heaving rush
again & again
as if repetition could somehow make it real--
the product of blind faith.
Is that what this is?
Their home is empty
and the air hangs.
A sudden museum, a deserted wake,
a homecoming
in a different light;
it's waiting for life to return.
Like the story of a pup
growing old beside its owner's grave,
our possessions are loyal.
They do not let go.
It's irrational, she knows,
but
in a way
she understands
and yearns to build a lighthouse,
one she can pick up and take with her
wherever she goes.
Someone really should've locked that door.
(She will tell herself it doesn't matter)
Things should be moving.
Dirty dishes on pause, forgotten in the sink;
they behave as if nothing bad
had ever happened here
& perhaps never could.
It's a pretty picture
until you focus in.
The devil is in the details,
you see.
Temperance has found that she cannot speak.
Her mouth has been hollow for days--
she said no goodbyes.
Russ just tilted his head helplessly
and sighed
as she refused to look him in the eye.
Sometimes, fare thee wells are a mere formality.
Sometimes,
it hurts to look.
What is the point?
Impossibly, it would seem the heavens have reversed their orbit.
It turns out nothing
is right
or as it should be
anymore.
Only four weeks ago, plans were being made. Routines were kept.
The planets stayed aligned.
Students in locker rooms
snickered.
Strangers at the supermarket stared.
Expectations stayed on course.
No friends,
no sleepovers,
no dates.
No matter.
Headphones on and textbook open,
each day is the same:
The other girls
share secrets
as they cheat off her tests.
They join in packs,
cough insults in the lunchroom,
and ask why
she always sits alone.
She's always hiding behind her hair.
She never changes her shoes.
The boys stand back & place bets--
bewitched, bothered & bewildered
by their very own wandering sphinx,
the one with the silent eyes
and the perpetual frown.
They want to crack her like a nut.
If adolescence in America is a three-ring circus,
then she is its freak show.
(Gather 'round, admission is free)
Can't you take a joke?
Each night is no different:
Alienation
follows her home;
it knows where she lives.
Humiliation
rides piggyback
on webs of pink bubblegum,
sticky & stubborn in her hair.
She lets her mom help
with warm hands and
soft words
& tries to believe her
when she says they're just jealous.
Truth be told,
the time had long since past
for Marco Polo
and his easy, lopsided grin,
reaching out to her through the glass.
Off on his motorcycle
with dreams due west,
young Brennan still worshipped the ground her big brother walked on.
He was everything she couldn't be.
Her smiles were all symmetrical;
she practiced them in the mirror before bed
and rarely showed off her work.
In time, Max suggested martial arts.
A mean right hook, he insisted.
That's what she needed.
(People were always trying to tell her what she needed.)
Ignore what the teacher says, honey. Aim for the cajones, he'd told her, miming a kick & knocking a plate over.
"That's how we met," Christine added.
Russ rolled his eyes, sitting nearby. Whether they were serious or not, he really didn't want to know.
Temperance set her book down, nonplussed. "By 'cajones', you mean you kicked Dad in the groin…and then broke a dish?"
"Can we stop talking about groins now?"
"Don't be such a prude, son." Max turned back to his daughter & tapped the counter two times. "Yes, exactly. Well, minus the dish part. I'm telling you, sweetie, there is nothing better than a smart, pretty girl who won't take any sh--"
"Matt!"
"What? You know I'm right. Those boys will be eating out of her hand. Once they can walk again, anyway. If."
Russ stood up. "All right, I'm out of here."
Just another day.
Nothing special.
Fake names, real memories,
no answers.
Simply the Earth's rotational axis
again & again;
a whirling dervish in the sky.
Sunrise, sunset.
All dressed up
with nowhere to go.
(What now?)
Panic is bubbling desperately to the surface,
despite her best efforts.
She is really not good with this type of change
or any type for that matter.
Nobody asked her what she wanted
or warned her of any upcoming plot twist.
The End
certainly didn't RSVP
before it crashed.
It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.
That's how the song goes, right?
She can't seem to line her thoughts up straight,
too many frightened bees buzzing,
trying to escape.
Ridiculous.
Except.
Somewhere deep, a voice is screaming--
her tin can banging loudly for the guard.
Help me.
This is no way to gain control.
She will have to find another way.
The back of his head flashes through her mind:
Marco (Polo)
sailing away;
an unreturned hug,
a wave of the hand,
a lonely call
without the response.
He's gone.
Happy New Year,
Should auld acquaintance be forgot?
Sincerely,
10,
9, 8,
7, 6, 5…
…Snow slaps the face;
her body is cold.
She can't stand at this door forever.
Muddy footprints staining the carpet,
they don't matter now.
No one lives here anymore.
They'll be here soon. That's what he said.
She needs to pack.
This is no time for tears.
It hurts to hurt
and benefits no one.
Muscles locked, jaw set,
Temperance closes the door
and grabs a bag.
It's time to go.
Her mother's clothes still hang in their closet.
They smell like her, patiently waiting.
Past-tense, they say.
It's wrong that we're here.
(Summer was past and day was past)
It will always
be wrong.
It always has been;
she just never knew it.
This is a symptom;
you're the disease.
Her hands won't stop shaking.
The room is too close.
It's all
coming down,
and she can't find her balance.
She can't.
It's her fault
somehow.
(Somber clouds in the west were massed)
Please don't make me leave.
These are the things she will learn
without ever being taught.
Russ threw the Christmas Tree away before he left,
but she can still see
the stray pine needles lying side by side.
Dutiful toy soldiers--one, two, three, four. A perfect--
Her presents remain unopened. They will come along.
Deep breaths.
Orphan Annie & her songs of tomorrow,
marching, marching
to the beat
of a different drummer.
She will open them once her parents return,
dead or alive.
She will keep watch.
This is the beginning of the end.
This is
please don't make me go
the beginning and
the end.
Lessons in mortality,
how life works:
some things cannot last,
some things always do.
The mind opens & shuts
when it has to.
It controls the heart,
protects the soul.
This is how she survives.
She does not forget.
Part of her will always be waiting--
one girl's shadow
behind the door,
looking for her family still.
***
"What was it like? For you, I mean…"
Years later, this is what people will want to know.
What it was like.
The question hangs, just halfway out of Angela's mouth, caught aloft by the spoon in her right hand.
"It must've been hard." She shakes her head. "Of course it was. I'm not saying this right."
Brennan looks up from her plate. This is how it always goes.
"You're saying it fine, Ange. And it's over now. That's all that matters."
They turn back to their food.
The spoon still hangs between them.
"Hey, Bren -- I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"
She doesn't know that.
"I know."
(The trick is in learning how to lie.)
***
Sweet 16
and no card.
No candles. No cake.
No party.
I'll cry if I want to.
It's irrelevant.
She didn't want one anyway.
She doesn't make
wishes.
She makes plans.
There's a difference.
Still, she finds that she quite likes
the impulsive sting of hot wax
dripping on her skin,
purchased with a five-finger discount.
The best kind.
They're going to be mad, it's true,
when they see the celebratory mess she's made
of this simple twin-sized bed,
but she supposes it won't really matter,
seeing as how her time here is almost up
anyway.
It usually is.
Russ called before,
more than a minute too late,
his voice distant & strange
on a stranger's machine.
(Tempe, I'm sorry. Please talk to me.)
She didn't pick up
and didn't regret it.
She has nothing
to say to him.
Someday, they will discuss it,
and she will tell him
that she's sorry, too.
She always was.
For what,
she doesn't know.
Right now, she's just angry.
Deep down,
it's a lot like falling.
She's still trying to get her grip.
This isn't
her home.
This isn't her bed.
It isn't her family.
It isn't her.
It isn't anything,
really,
but what it isn't
and what it should be.
In a perfect world, this would all be different.
Would you just--are you there?
She's keeping both eyes on the nearest exit,
indulging in the familiar dream
of a show-stopping curtain call,
one big enough to bring the house down.
The problem is
there's no audience,
and it wouldn't matter if there were.
Dreams are childish, anyway.
She's almost an adult.
Under different circumstances, she could already be a mother.
Not that she wants to be a mother,
but that's not the point.
She doesn't want to be here.
She doesn't really want to leave.
She doesn't want anything
but for everything to stop,
if only for a while.
The tragedy is
there's a peace sometimes
in disappearing.
(She no longer remembers her mother's face)
And yet,
Temperance knows
that there are 24 hours in a day
and 60 minutes in an hour;
she knows that, tomorrow,
today will be
yesterday.
Good or bad,
everything eventually becomes a memory.
Sometimes it's best to forget,
to pretend that you can.
Sometimes you don't have a choice.
(The body remembers everything)
…Keep it moving.
Don't look back.
She's got scars on her feet,
that's the thing,
a worn-out pair of tennis shoes
blackened
deeper & darker
with every step.
It's like a procession without the ending;
pillars of salt
between each toe,
trailing like breadcrumbs.
She remembers hearing once
that white roses express grief,
innocence,
love;
her unseen petals are wilting
and pressed between the pages.
No one seems to notice,
including her.
It's only a symbol, anyway,
of something else,
the garbage bag waiting by the door.
It doesn't have to mean anything.
Restless fingers picking, clenching--
stop.
Four tiny crescents on her palm, there before she knows it,
her own private galaxy;
at least it's precise.
She can hear them through the walls,
her foster parents,
pounding closer,
fading away,
busy
doing all they can
to die just a little bit faster.
It's a house on fire,
but they don't know it.
They sit there & burn.
It sets her teeth on edge,
body stiff,
shoulders curling.
She cannot feel it
when they hug her,
when they try.
Some do try, after all,
until they don't.
(They mostly don't)
It's hard to watch
and act surprised
when it's over.
And it is over
in all the ways that matter
but one.
Death is but one and comes but once
For some, there are many practice runs.
Temperance is so, so tired
of the word
goodbye.
Hearing it,
saying it,
expecting it.
It's exhausting, but
she's getting much better
at turning away;
she has to.
Muscle memory in her sadness,
in her veins,
she believes she's getting stronger.
It's really nothing
but the same promises repeated again & again.
In the clear light of day,
all the guilty words
of good intentions & righteous mores
have a funny way
of losing their meaning.
Who do they even think they're kidding?
Their ambitious smiles
are like nails on a chalkboard.
These new beginnings never last.
A half-assed honeymoon phase
is what it is,
the entire thing--
vaguely insulting to her intelligence.
Take care, okay?
She knows the truth;
the bald-faced kind
that lurks in the dark,
succinctly whispering
three little words.
(nobody wants you)
***
There's a simplicity behind closed lids,
a solid stillness
within pain,
that holds its ground
even when the sky above
is falling down.
Ruth Keenan
learns this quickly on the run,
then relearns it
with each haunted morning
that passes her by,
alone.
Except she's not alone,
not really;
it's just that her arms
don't know that.
They dream in the night of their two lost children,
one for each hand,
fighting their way past endless currents.
They're trying
as best they know how
to make their way home.
It's an ache that never gives up.
Holding the curve of one position
Her head won't stay above water;
the shore is too far away.
She's not going to make it.
Her sisters' voices
reverberate in the dark,
searching & asking--
unrecognizable
facsimiles.
"Weren't we something good?"
They're only copies, like her.
Christine Brennan.
That's not her name.
Her past has been snuffed out,
and she was the accomplice
to the crime.
There aren't enough handcuffs in the world.
There are so few
who will remember her
for who she really was.
Whoever,
whatever
that means.
What will it even stand for
when all is said and done?
She needs to know.
She has to believe
they'll be okay.
Today is her daughter's sixteenth birthday.
She won't be there to see it.
Outwardly, she appears calm.
On the inside,
she is tearing down walls
and making bargains
with the ceiling.
It's not fair.
She wonders
if they will ever meet again.
The pain in her head
tells her no.
The pain in her heart
repeats yes,
yes.
Always, yes.
There is no other option.
One way or another,
she's not going down without a fight.
As for Max,
he never thought he'd stay on this Earth long.
He came from nothing
and assumed he'd end with nothing.
Simple as that.
He only wanted to stay as long as he could--
the trademark of a survivor.
The day they met, he smiled, slow & wide,
and told her, "You just changed everything."
She told herself
that she didn't know what that meant,
but she did.
And she does now.
She's here for a single purpose.
Off on the other side of the park,
there are children shouting,
pushing,
spinning 'round & 'round.
It's only a silly game,
but everything is serious
when you're young.
She remembers.
She never truly considered that there'd be an end.
It was always out of reach.
Her mother called her an idealist,
a day dreamer,
a flower child.
"Find someone to pull your head out of the clouds," she'd say. "That's my advice."
Marrying a brilliant science teacher seemed like a reasonable way to go.
Little did she know,
however,
they'd come up with dreams of their own.
Two, in fact. Smart & wild, more than a handful.
Just like her.
By then,
her mother was long gone,
and soon enough
so was she.
All that she has left of her now
is this small ring.
'Round & 'round.
(A pocket full of posies)
It's odd,
staring into the mirrored eye of a camera,
seeking out a connection that's not yet there.
Their time is all out of sync.
Someday, she hopes to make
the two ends meet.
Until then, this is all she has.
One more chance
to say hello,
to say goodbye,
to remind her
of who she really is.
"Remember this: you were cherished in this world."
That's a wrap, as they say.
It needs to be enough.
It has to.
To her far left,
there's a lone blue-eyed girl
focused on the sand,
biting her lip,
and glaring at the birds,
forming a perfect castle for one,
or maybe for two.
There's no telling
what will come of her fine work
once she calls it a day.
Maybe that's the point.
Maybe
the best-laid plans
no longer belong to
anyone, really,
once their creator
has walked away.
There's no perfect blueprint,
it turns out,
to keep the outside
out
or the inside
in.
Her arms don't care.
They're tapping a morse code
up & down her spine--
S.O.S., S.O.S.;
they still haven't gotten the original message.
She suspects they never will.
Maybe that, too,
is the point.
***
"What about Lily?"
"Nope. Jane."
Brennan curls into Booth's neck,
breathing him in,
noting his quiet sigh in return.
She's too tired to mince words.
One night
here,
in this bed, with this breath,
is so much more.
A lifetime of nights
is something else entirely.
She could sink right into this mattress.
"Okay. What is it with you & 'Jane'?"
She looks up. He's already staring her down, morning bed-head pointing every which way, no match for her eye-crusties. They make quite a pair.
"Jane -- like Jane Goodall. Obviously."
He snorts. "Of course. I mean, why else?"
She rests her head back down, smiling. "I'm pleased you agree."
Palm sliding across her back, he shakes his head in response. "No. No way. Us agree? Never."
"You seemed to agree last night."
Booth's hand stops. "What? We never even talked about baby names last night."
She's sneaky when she's naked. He should've known.
Bones gives him an exaggerated wink. It's not a little on the awkward side, but she's honestly pretty cute when she tries, just in general.
He hopes she never gives up.
"Ooh. You just made a joke, didn't you?" His fingers tickle her waist.
"Booth!" The cocky smile on her face quickly morphs into a frown. "You know I dislike tickling."
"Sorry." It's a struggle not to laugh. Still, he does his best to appear contrite. The thing is, she's even cuter when she's annoyed--finicky genius nose all bunched up like a surprise mouthful of sour grapes.
Will their daughter like grapes?
All day long, this is the type of thing he wonders.
It leaves him utterly defenseless.
This thing between them,
the words that speak when mouths are closed,
always has.
The soldier in him no longer minds;
he's more than ready to lay down arms.
It's been a long campaign.
In truth, he never really saw this coming
and somehow missed it before it did.
Fatherhood arrived in much the same way.
He can't help but wonder
what comes next.
One skilled troop of phalanges makes its way south, abruptly stealing him from his thoughts. "You know I wasn't really serious about 'Jane', anyway. It's a bit old-fashioned."
Her left pinky just invaded Brazil. Is he still supposed to be listening?
"You weren't?"
"No. But I find that my Pinochle Face gains a great deal of efficacy as far as you're concerned once my bra's been removed."
Like he said. Sneaky. Also, Pinochle Face?
Really, Bones?
He eyes her busy fingers, musing dryly, "I thought you were tired."
She grins. "I'm practicing my Itsy Bitsy Spider technique."
Both of Booth's eyebrows shoot up. "That's not how it's done, babe."
"This is the adult version."
Well.
He rolls her over. "Maybe 'Jane' isn't such a bad name after all."
There's that face again. "Yes, it is."
"You see? I told you we never agree."
And she wouldn't have it any other way.
***
It's been said
that those who suffer
know how to be grateful.
Those who cry
know how to smile.
At seventeen years old,
Temperance has only got
one down,
but practice makes perfect.
Supposedly.
For what it's worth
(and it's worth a lot),
she will get there eventually,
though she doesn't know that yet.
What she does know
is that she doesn't understand;
those three little words,
what they even mean,
exactly how
people do
what they do,
the looks on their faces as they carry on;
she's always left behind.
Though, perhaps,
that map was flawed from the start.
It might be the
other way around--
lost generations of tortoises
lapping the hare from behind.
She remembers
her dogged big brother finding her
on one long, unannounced walk after the other,
begging her to slow down,
yelling
that she was going to worry
their parents to death.
He used to jokingly call them her walkabouts
and apologize
for the lack of sand,
as if he were personally responsible for the Earth.
Each & every time,
he'd raise his eyes to the clouds,
seeking out patterns,
as she explained once again
what a walkabout really meant,
crossed her arms against her chest
& exhaled in a short, staccato refrain:
"People. don't. die. from. worry."
Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words…
Later, after dragging her home,
he'd announce to no one in particular,
"We need to put a bell on this one. Like a cat."
Their father had only one response:
"Our Tempe was born a wanderer. You leave her alone, she'll land on her feet. She just needs a soft place to fall."
He was always more concerned that Russ
would be the child to stray
and not return.
These days,
she still sometimes takes off,
but now
there's no one showing up
to find her.
In a week,
she'll be leaving for college.
There certainly won't be anyone for her there,
waiting in the wings,
wiping their eyes with a smile.
It'll just be her, some boxes,
and a room.
She already has the key,
signed her name on the dotted line;
here, now, as it should be,
a place for everything
& every thing
in its place.
This time,
it is her home.
It is her bed.
She supposes that
it is her.
After all, who else would it be?
Picture-framed shadows stretch across her face,
dancing cheek to cheek,
irises blooming
between the sea & the sky,
concrete elements in motion.
It's already been such a long way.
(the clock strikes on the hour)
Behind the door,
she takes inventory--
pausing
just outside the flickering light.
On, off, on, off.
Ready?
Set.
Four blank walls, a broken sink,
and an open window
overlooking the street;
it's quiet here,
but she knows better than most
exactly how loud a sunrise can be.
Men & women in their suits,
boys & girls calling shotgun;
rise & shine.
Off they go each day.
They don't remember
the sucking white noise
of a pitch-black trunk;
the scent of gasoline that lingered in the air
as she numbly walked away;
the blood-red clouds
that erupted in her sleep, all night long--raining,
raining down.
There was nothing she could do.
Her silence enraged them.
Her voice confused them.
They could not stand
the sight of her.
If I just try harder, stand up straighter--
Jack & Jill
up on the hill
fetching their pail of water,
they don't see
the world she's seen.
They have their own problems.
Sometimes,
the old man downstairs,
the one who stands by the cornerstore,
shifting his feet,
hums when they pass & points to the ground.
No one sings along
except for her.
For once, she knows the words.
It won't do any good.
(I can't be what you want me to be. I can only be.)
She is free,
secluded, and ultimately on her own--
stale breadcrumbs buried
& forgotten--
but fortunately, she doesn't mind
keeping herself company.
It's the presence of others
that she could take or leave
most of the time,
or at least
that's what seems correct
after the blur of faces that made up her youth.
She never did get a prom.
Never made it through the door.
The things they thought of her,
she's still trying.
Still counting all the beats,
listening
for the thunder,
waiting for the lightning to strike.
She won't be caught by surprise again.
Her eyes are wide
open.
And yet,
years of her childhood
keep slipping through her fingers.
Hands frozen in the ice,
six feet below,
clawing
their way to the surface,
she can't bring them back.
All the memories--
her father's voice, gift-wrapped
souvenirs
of photogenic smiles on Christmas Day--
all sliced up to bits & projected
in reverse
on a nocturnal screen,
I miss you
on the tip of her tongue.
She's yet to speak the words aloud.
Not everything that's broken can be fixed.
What they were,
what they could've been,
what she is.
It's something new now.
She's determined to find some answers.
She won't stop until she does.
But that man in the gutter, he already knows
what she really wants,
what she can't say:
the impossible answer to one
single question.
Why?
***
It shouldn't surprise her
how light the skull is.
It shouldn't feel
like an anomaly.
Twisting it 'round in her hands,
this way, that way,
she finally has a grip
on what has eluded her all her adult life--
exactly what happened to her mother.
This is where she comes from;
right here,
tangible & true,
nine months & an eternity.
Full stop.
Before Joy
so much as took her first breath,
blindly clenched her brother's finger
with her fist,
& planned who she'd become,
she was but the spark of an idea
inside her mother's brain.
It doesn't explain
how the weight of the world
could now seem suddenly so insignificant.
Pain this heavy should surely leave a mark
on the Earth,
let civilizations know
for centuries to come,
"I was here. You're living proof."
The skull is no lighter than dozens she's held before.
It waited in the soil for years
amongst the plants & seeds,
rested in limbo
beside nameless boxes,
all laid out in a row, labeled with care.
The emptiness is merely an illusion,
a delusion
of the thalamus and cingulate gyrus,
not the heart
as Booth would like to say.
He'd insist
that the lightness of a mother's skull
has more to do with the heart of her child
than anything else,
that a soul
takes up more space
than she or Hodgins could ever measure
with a thousand mass specs.
Sometimes he makes no sense at all.
But she likes to hear his voice
when all else is silent, when the diner is deafening,
to see his face when he brings it in close,
like if he could just get
close enough,
neither of them would ever feel alone again.
She can still feel his arms around her--
warm fingers in her hair,
steady breath in her ear,
the smell of hay surrounding them.
There was no question he understood,
that he knew without a doubt
who she was.
She's not positive if she can still claim the same.
As an anthropologist, she knows very well
how the Ju/'hoansi name their children,
how the Torajan mourn their dead;
she doesn't know
how to bury Ruth Keenan.
It's Christine Brennan
that she'll put in that grave,
not some stranger.
She doesn't want to believe
Christine Brennan was a stranger.
She doesn't know what to think of her father.
Max Keenan
has been gone
since before she can even remember.
Matthew Brennan, the man she knew,
was never really there at all.
He didn't exist.
It was all a lie.
Wasn't it?
Whatever the case,
he's still out there, even now,
and has been for all these years--
changing names, changing faces,
nowhere to be found
when she needed him most.
It's so much easier to forgive her mother
when she knows she'll never see her again.
His voice on the machine was very much alive.
She didn't want to hear it
and was desperate to hear it,
all at the same time.
When she again hit play the following morning,
standing tall in her robe,
blinking fast,
Russ stepped forward without a word
& took her hand in his.
Once upon a yesterday,
he too was just a voice on the machine.
When she looks at him now,
something inside her, familiar & forgotten,
tugs strangely,
like it's being pulled out from within.
She wants to tell him,
You were my anchor. You weren't supposed to leave.
It was her idea to ask him to stay,
a leap of faith amidst outlandish prizes
& one would-be lover's
conspicuous gaze.
She'd never admit it, but
it's what she's wanted all this time--
for someone to stay.
Rationally,
she knows that's an unreasonable desire.
She can accept that.
Temperance Brennan prides herself,
and always has,
on being reasonable,
on accepting
the natural order of things.
This skull, these bones,
she can make sense of them
in a simple way her heart cannot.
She can step back, close her eyes,
and look at them
as if the rest of her
were somewhere far away.
For so long, this place,
the Jeffersonian,
has let her do that, has been
her home, her port in the storm.
It always keeps the lights on for her,
never leaves her in the dark.
Placing her mother's skull
back in the box,
she's still not ready
to say goodbye.
After all,
there's nothing here
to say goodbye to.
(Is there?)
This isn't her mother,
once vibrant and kind;
it's not anything that knows her
or the things she's seen;
and yet,
she remains.
Counting an endless repetition
She won't pretend to know why.
***
"Sweetie, will you promise me something?"
Brennan looks up from her lap. In her arms, Michael Staccato Vincent Hodgins
is squirming about, legs kicking the air.
His feet are so small.
She can fit one, whole, in the palm of her hand.
It's a happiness that almost hurts
when she thinks of
what's to come.
At one point in her life, she would've asked
what the promise was for.
Now, she just nods.
"Please don't leave." There's a glass of champagne in Angela's hand, slightly raised, as if she were preparing a toast.
After all this time, they've earned one.
"I don't mean never leave at all. God knows you & Booth could use a honeymoon; I just mean, don't…leave."
Brennan shakes her head, confused. "I don't have any plans to leave. Also, Booth and I aren't married. A honeymoon would require that we be wed."
Angela sighs, but not impatiently. This is how it always goes.
"I know you're not planning to leave. What I'm asking is, will you stay? Just like this--as long as you can?"
Michael's feet are still kicking, like he already wants to get up & run away.
She understands how he feels.
The funny thing is,
he'll spend his entire childhood racing
to be an adult; when he grows up,
he'll miss this--being held,
not for any specific reason,
but just because.
She suspects that she'll miss it too,
her arms around him,
all of human history between them.
He doesn't even realize yet
what gravity can do,
but he trusts her not to let him fall.
Just like that,
he trusts her.
A sudden tightness is beginning to build in her throat,
climbing its way up.
She could blame it on hormones,
but she knows what her friend is really asking,
and it makes her want to apologize
for no reason.
"I can't promise you that, Ange. No one can. It's not possible to live forever."
Steadying herself, she breaks eye contact,
wondering
if this is one of those moments
where all the words in the world
could never be good enough.
Angela doesn't mind either way. She never has.
She doesn't need all the words,
just the notes.
1, 2, 3, 4.
(we all fall down)
"Will you try anyway? For me?"
Brennan swallows;
decades of living caught beneath her tongue,
the tiny heart
ticking in her womb;
there's only one acceptable answer she can give:
"Yes." One quick beat -- "Always."
(down your back like a book of blessings)
Angela nods, satisfied. "Good, because you're never getting rid of me. I hope you've figured that out by now."
She has.
She knows
what that means.
"I love you too, Ange."
In the end,
it's not a promise.
It's the truth.
***
The first thing she sees
at the foot of her mother's grave
are the fresh-cut daffodils
bound together as one
with a single white ribbon.
I know you, Bones.
They should seem out of place here--
a symbol of life amongst the dead,
gifted to those
whose eyes will forever stay closed--
but they don't.
They, too, are only alive in spirit,
plucked unexpectedly from the Earth.
And yet,
here they are,
heralding the rite of spring.
She already knows they're not from Max;
he's standing right beside her
with a grand bouquet
of long-stemmed roses, stark-red
& fragrant against his black winter coat.
Today is Mother's Day.
The weather
is temperamental,
caught in flux between one season and the next.
Every breath gets its own punctuation mark, making itself known.
She wouldn't exactly call it unpleasant.
She wouldn't call it anything else either.
It just is.
Kneeling forward,
her father lays the bouquet gently down
on the ground,
pale clouds billowing from his mouth.
Primary colors, she thinks.
Missing one.
(a silent tribute)
She didn't bring anything with her
save the small portrait in her hand.
Black & white--
a study in contrasts
shared.
Just like them.
"You didn't tell me Booth had already been here. You must've known." Temperance turns to her father, waiting.
It's not a question; it's an answer.
He hums in agreement, staring distantly,
one finger tracing
the shallow etchings on the stone.
Christine Brennan.
In memoriam.
"Russ couldn't come. I think Booth saw it as his duty--as a sort of quasi-son-in-law, you might say. I told him that you'd be here, that we both would."
Standing, Max sweeps the dirt off his pant legs, still facing forward. "He's a good man, Tempe. Your mother would've liked him. Even I like him."
She can't help but smile a bit at this. If he'd had his way, there would've been a real-life shotgun wedding at the FBI, complete with his & hers bullets.
Blanks, of course,
but it's the thought that counts.
"I like him too, Dad."
Amused, he directs a pointed glance toward her middle. "Well, that's no secret. Not that it ever really was, mind you, for either of you two kids. Might as well have hired a skywriter."
Indeed.
There would've been no shortage
of eager pilots, that's for sure.
"I miss her, you know."
Startled, Brennan holds in a breath,
unsure how to properly respond.
The transition is too abrupt.
She is still sometimes that
hollow-mouthed girl inside,
tripping over the rules, afraid to look back,
unable to move forward.
She keeps going anyway.
Sooner or later,
she always finds her way,
even if she has to pave the road herself.
"I miss her every day. Even when I don't realize it." Max pauses, briefly.
"I know you do, too."
She allows for a quick nod, smoothing the picture in her hand. "I've grown accustomed to it."
"I don't think that's really something you can grow accustomed to, sweetheart." He shakes his head, gestures around them. "You know, people only say that time heals all wounds because they wish it were true. But you still carry that pain with you wherever you go, and it never stays the same. It changes, just like you do."
Fighting frustration, she wants to turn away,
but she won't.
People are always
telling her what she feels,
what she should feel,
masking their own feelings
in the process.
It's not wrong, but it's not right either.
There's more than one way to heal,
more than one kind
of wound.
"Except I wasn't really given a choice, was I?"
His eyes flicker with something; she's not sure what. She can't make him out. "No. No, you weren't. But you shouldn't have to get used to it."
Unbidden, an image appears
all at once in her mind--
a young Zack
sitting calmly at his station, peering up
& out at her from somewhere within himself--
only a memory.
Don't listen to what people say, Dr. Brennan. Listen to what they don't say.
She remembers
how she stood there & stared after him,
dumbfounded,
one arm halfway into her lab coat.
That doesn't make any sense, Zack.
His mouth hung open as she spoke,
like he couldn't wait to get his next thought out fast enough,
as if there were never enough time.
She remembers that, too,
the way he'd leap into a reply, into everything he did,
all or nothing.
I know. That's what I just told Angela, but then she walked away without explaining. What does it mean?
Angela. Of course.
Her next guess would've been Booth.
It doesn't mean anything. It's not physically possible to listen to something that's not said.
He nodded & returned to work. If she didn't know better, she'd have said he looked relieved.
If she'd known differently,
if she'd been able
to save him,
she would have.
But she didn't,
and she couldn't.
It still weighs heavily
after all these years,
irrational as that may be.
Everyone wants
to protect someone;
longing for the impossible
is an ache that knows
no beginning
and has no end.
Back in the present,
she bends to the ground
& lets the picture go--
right between the roses
& the daffodils, an ideal meeting place
for all the people
they have been.
She doesn't bother talking to the headstone
to announce whose baby it is
in the photo;
some things don't need to be said.
Some things fall through the cracks,
too slippery
for words.
Perhaps that is what Angela meant
all along.
Her father clears his throat. "I know there's no way to turn back time. I know that we do what we have to do in life to get by. I just wish I could fix all of this for you. For me. For Russ."
He slowly grips her hand, holding on tight,
the cool touch of a silver
fin against his palm.
He hasn't forgotten.
All those sleepless nights,
the months & years
that passed in an instant, the look
on his wife's face as she returned from the park;
together, they lit sixteen candles
and blew them all out.
(the house opened up wide)
She was their greatest wish
right from the beginning,
the final piece in a flawless puzzle.
One big happy family.
"I learned a long time ago that you don't have to die to stop living. I never wanted that for you."
She isn't you. She's her, and you're you. You're alive, and she's dead.
Her hand still in his, she grasps back. "I'm not dead, Dad. I'm very much alive."
Eyes on the horizon, breathing
in & out--making her mark,
seeking out patterns;
it's okay.
Life
is a work
in progress.
"I may be used to it, but I do feel it. I do miss her. At times, I even miss you."
Before he can interject, she continues. "I realize that makes no sense. I can see you anytime I want now, but…"
His chin tucks down, eyebrows raised. She doesn't need to explain.
"But that wasn't always the case."
Dropping her hand, she holds his gaze. "No, it wasn't; however, I'm glad you're here."
Some things do
need to be said.
(there's no turning back)
He shares a small smile in return.
There's no way to make it right,
but that doesn't mean
it can't get better.
They came here together
in the same car, side by side,
arguing
over the radio.
For more than a decade, that would've been impossible.
Occasionally,
a left turn
is exactly what's right.
He closes his eyes, letting the moment sit;
he can imagine
four pebbles skipping
over the surface of a pond,
one hand waving goodbye,
the beginning and the end.
"You ready?"
There's a single tear
trailing down
the side of her face.
She'll cry if she wants to.
And she does
want to.
It's time…
(one girl's shadow behind the door)
It's safe now
to come outside,
to leave it all
behind.
They're waiting for her.
Her bags
are packed;
the sun is falling.
All the things that
gravity can do--
she's no longer afraid
to jump.
And so,
she leaps.
"Yes. Take me home."
---
Fin
---
---
And that's it! As promised, here's a list of citations for direct quotes:
-Bereft, Robert Frost.
-Here's the Church.
-How To Be Alone, Tanya Davis.
-Humpty Dumpty.
-Sunrise, Sunset, Bright Eyes. (just the song title, but still)
-It's My Party, Lesley Gore.
-I Measure Every Grief, Emily Dickinson.
-Devotion, Robert Frost.
-Ring Around the Rosies.
-"Life is a work in progress" can be credited to my good friend keenai. She told me that recently, and I decided a shout-out was in order here. Heh.
Fandom: Bones
Author: rachg82
Rating: A light R, if even
Characters/Pairings: Brennan, Booth, Angela, Max, Russ…just about everyone (but not together -- it's not that kind of fic, pervs)
Word Count: About 7,000
Spoilers: Up through the end of the 6th season + a bit of speculation regarding stuff that's come out for season 7.
Disclaimer: This show still isn't mine, though I like to pretend otherwise.
Summary: This fic began eight months ago as a single image in my mind that just wouldn't leave: fifteen-year-old Brennan in an empty house, standing by the door. It slowly evolved from there, delving further into things I'd briefly touched on in previous fics, & ultimately becoming a short series of less-than-linear snapshots. A verbal panorama, if you will.
Note: First, there are a couple mild mentions of self-injury in this fic, so please be aware of that going in. Second, y'all know how I roll, so there are a handful of obvious quotes strewn throughout -- those will be cited at the end. We good? Good.
As always, this rachg82-led foray into Bones Land will come with music. There'll be one to set the tone at the beginning & another to cap it off at the end. (I'll more than likely do another fanfic soundtrack as well, but that will come later)
Enjoy, my peeps!
Click to view"There are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. And no one is lying. Memories shared serve each one differently." - Robert Evans
---
---
A single pale hand is rising in the wake:
stop
and look.
The house
opened up wide
and blew everything away.
Just like that.
Here's the church; here's the steeple.
(look again, and see)
Life disappearing
because no one is watching.
That's how it goes.
This is no false alarm.
There are no credits preparing to roll.
This is real.
A portrait is forming in the shadows,
one girl waiting at the door.
The threshold has been broken.
There's no turning back.
Thunder, dizzy, on the march--
her pulse is rushing through her ears,
circling her vision
& tricking the floor.
First it's here, &
then
it's not.
Steady, now.
A riot of paresthesia
keeps dancing beneath her skin.
It doesn't make sense.
The turning of the clock;
their absence;
the sun
rising
& setting
without them.
Where'd they go?
Every minute,
every second
is proof.
Proof of what's real,
proof of what's not,
proof
that what she sees
when she looks in the mirror
has actually been there
all along.
She feels nothing
but raw.
There's an answer for all of it
somewhere,
but no one's asking the right questions.
15 years old,
not quite grown & not quite young,
Temperance Brennan is building a hypothesis
and remains
still.
The word "remains"
can mean many things.
(be a testament)
If your heart is bleeding,
make the best of it.
She is learning a lesson
about how to
hold on.
This
is how you stand
in the eye of a storm,
…don't forget.
Don't let go.
Face to the wind,
both feet on the ground,
her lacy white anklets won't stop slipping.
It's more bothersome than it should be.
She's not sure why she's even wearing them in the first place.
All the same,
there's a high stack of dominoes in her wide-eyed brain,
and it is tumbling,
tumbling
down.
(One by one, they fall)
Her body holds its breath.
It knows this is just the beginning.
Nerves stretched taut,
amp set to eleven,
she likes things to make sense.
A place at the table--this is where I go.
This is why we're here.
This
is what it means
for the fork to be there
and the napkin to be
here
at six o'clock sharp in the evening.
It feels good to belong,
to know what comes next,
to inhale
deeply
& know what to say.
They don't expect her to speak.
They don't mind when she does.
There is no script, but they are her score.
Each note serves a function.
Each life has a beat.
1, 2, 3, 4.
A perfect measure,
no mistakes.
Four right angles make it a home.
Dividing the universe up
by column & row,
networked cells of painted passion
learned by rote;
her world can only be translated at best,
like geometric
equations
composed by a synesthete.
The beauty is logical.
The table is gone.
Her place doesn't exist.
These are the facts
and so much more.
(All the king's horses & all the king's men)
Brace for impact.
It cannot be undone, my friend,
only redefined. That is the truth.
There's smoke on the horizon now,
left behind--a sign, some might say;
murky metaphors sliding
past figurative lips.
She can't understand their meaning,
can't understand
why people won't just say
what they mean
and mean what they say.
Perception is full of lies,
both big & small.
Russ
told her she'd be okay,
told her they both would
in time.
He said it in a heaving rush
again & again
as if repetition could somehow make it real--
the product of blind faith.
Is that what this is?
Their home is empty
and the air hangs.
A sudden museum, a deserted wake,
a homecoming
in a different light;
it's waiting for life to return.
Like the story of a pup
growing old beside its owner's grave,
our possessions are loyal.
They do not let go.
It's irrational, she knows,
but
in a way
she understands
and yearns to build a lighthouse,
one she can pick up and take with her
wherever she goes.
Someone really should've locked that door.
(She will tell herself it doesn't matter)
Things should be moving.
Dirty dishes on pause, forgotten in the sink;
they behave as if nothing bad
had ever happened here
& perhaps never could.
It's a pretty picture
until you focus in.
The devil is in the details,
you see.
Temperance has found that she cannot speak.
Her mouth has been hollow for days--
she said no goodbyes.
Russ just tilted his head helplessly
and sighed
as she refused to look him in the eye.
Sometimes, fare thee wells are a mere formality.
Sometimes,
it hurts to look.
What is the point?
Impossibly, it would seem the heavens have reversed their orbit.
It turns out nothing
is right
or as it should be
anymore.
Only four weeks ago, plans were being made. Routines were kept.
The planets stayed aligned.
Students in locker rooms
snickered.
Strangers at the supermarket stared.
Expectations stayed on course.
No friends,
no sleepovers,
no dates.
No matter.
Headphones on and textbook open,
each day is the same:
The other girls
share secrets
as they cheat off her tests.
They join in packs,
cough insults in the lunchroom,
and ask why
she always sits alone.
She's always hiding behind her hair.
She never changes her shoes.
The boys stand back & place bets--
bewitched, bothered & bewildered
by their very own wandering sphinx,
the one with the silent eyes
and the perpetual frown.
They want to crack her like a nut.
If adolescence in America is a three-ring circus,
then she is its freak show.
(Gather 'round, admission is free)
Can't you take a joke?
Each night is no different:
Alienation
follows her home;
it knows where she lives.
Humiliation
rides piggyback
on webs of pink bubblegum,
sticky & stubborn in her hair.
She lets her mom help
with warm hands and
soft words
& tries to believe her
when she says they're just jealous.
Truth be told,
the time had long since past
for Marco Polo
and his easy, lopsided grin,
reaching out to her through the glass.
Off on his motorcycle
with dreams due west,
young Brennan still worshipped the ground her big brother walked on.
He was everything she couldn't be.
Her smiles were all symmetrical;
she practiced them in the mirror before bed
and rarely showed off her work.
In time, Max suggested martial arts.
A mean right hook, he insisted.
That's what she needed.
(People were always trying to tell her what she needed.)
Ignore what the teacher says, honey. Aim for the cajones, he'd told her, miming a kick & knocking a plate over.
"That's how we met," Christine added.
Russ rolled his eyes, sitting nearby. Whether they were serious or not, he really didn't want to know.
Temperance set her book down, nonplussed. "By 'cajones', you mean you kicked Dad in the groin…and then broke a dish?"
"Can we stop talking about groins now?"
"Don't be such a prude, son." Max turned back to his daughter & tapped the counter two times. "Yes, exactly. Well, minus the dish part. I'm telling you, sweetie, there is nothing better than a smart, pretty girl who won't take any sh--"
"Matt!"
"What? You know I'm right. Those boys will be eating out of her hand. Once they can walk again, anyway. If."
Russ stood up. "All right, I'm out of here."
Just another day.
Nothing special.
Fake names, real memories,
no answers.
Simply the Earth's rotational axis
again & again;
a whirling dervish in the sky.
Sunrise, sunset.
All dressed up
with nowhere to go.
(What now?)
Panic is bubbling desperately to the surface,
despite her best efforts.
She is really not good with this type of change
or any type for that matter.
Nobody asked her what she wanted
or warned her of any upcoming plot twist.
The End
certainly didn't RSVP
before it crashed.
It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.
That's how the song goes, right?
She can't seem to line her thoughts up straight,
too many frightened bees buzzing,
trying to escape.
Ridiculous.
Except.
Somewhere deep, a voice is screaming--
her tin can banging loudly for the guard.
Help me.
This is no way to gain control.
She will have to find another way.
The back of his head flashes through her mind:
Marco (Polo)
sailing away;
an unreturned hug,
a wave of the hand,
a lonely call
without the response.
He's gone.
Happy New Year,
Should auld acquaintance be forgot?
Sincerely,
10,
9, 8,
7, 6, 5…
…Snow slaps the face;
her body is cold.
She can't stand at this door forever.
Muddy footprints staining the carpet,
they don't matter now.
No one lives here anymore.
They'll be here soon. That's what he said.
She needs to pack.
This is no time for tears.
It hurts to hurt
and benefits no one.
Muscles locked, jaw set,
Temperance closes the door
and grabs a bag.
It's time to go.
Her mother's clothes still hang in their closet.
They smell like her, patiently waiting.
Past-tense, they say.
It's wrong that we're here.
(Summer was past and day was past)
It will always
be wrong.
It always has been;
she just never knew it.
This is a symptom;
you're the disease.
Her hands won't stop shaking.
The room is too close.
It's all
coming down,
and she can't find her balance.
She can't.
It's her fault
somehow.
(Somber clouds in the west were massed)
Please don't make me leave.
These are the things she will learn
without ever being taught.
Russ threw the Christmas Tree away before he left,
but she can still see
the stray pine needles lying side by side.
Dutiful toy soldiers--one, two, three, four. A perfect--
Her presents remain unopened. They will come along.
Deep breaths.
Orphan Annie & her songs of tomorrow,
marching, marching
to the beat
of a different drummer.
She will open them once her parents return,
dead or alive.
She will keep watch.
This is the beginning of the end.
This is
please don't make me go
the beginning and
the end.
Lessons in mortality,
how life works:
some things cannot last,
some things always do.
The mind opens & shuts
when it has to.
It controls the heart,
protects the soul.
This is how she survives.
She does not forget.
Part of her will always be waiting--
one girl's shadow
behind the door,
looking for her family still.
***
"What was it like? For you, I mean…"
Years later, this is what people will want to know.
What it was like.
The question hangs, just halfway out of Angela's mouth, caught aloft by the spoon in her right hand.
"It must've been hard." She shakes her head. "Of course it was. I'm not saying this right."
Brennan looks up from her plate. This is how it always goes.
"You're saying it fine, Ange. And it's over now. That's all that matters."
They turn back to their food.
The spoon still hangs between them.
"Hey, Bren -- I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"
She doesn't know that.
"I know."
(The trick is in learning how to lie.)
***
Sweet 16
and no card.
No candles. No cake.
No party.
I'll cry if I want to.
It's irrelevant.
She didn't want one anyway.
She doesn't make
wishes.
She makes plans.
There's a difference.
Still, she finds that she quite likes
the impulsive sting of hot wax
dripping on her skin,
purchased with a five-finger discount.
The best kind.
They're going to be mad, it's true,
when they see the celebratory mess she's made
of this simple twin-sized bed,
but she supposes it won't really matter,
seeing as how her time here is almost up
anyway.
It usually is.
Russ called before,
more than a minute too late,
his voice distant & strange
on a stranger's machine.
(Tempe, I'm sorry. Please talk to me.)
She didn't pick up
and didn't regret it.
She has nothing
to say to him.
Someday, they will discuss it,
and she will tell him
that she's sorry, too.
She always was.
For what,
she doesn't know.
Right now, she's just angry.
Deep down,
it's a lot like falling.
She's still trying to get her grip.
This isn't
her home.
This isn't her bed.
It isn't her family.
It isn't her.
It isn't anything,
really,
but what it isn't
and what it should be.
In a perfect world, this would all be different.
Would you just--are you there?
She's keeping both eyes on the nearest exit,
indulging in the familiar dream
of a show-stopping curtain call,
one big enough to bring the house down.
The problem is
there's no audience,
and it wouldn't matter if there were.
Dreams are childish, anyway.
She's almost an adult.
Under different circumstances, she could already be a mother.
Not that she wants to be a mother,
but that's not the point.
She doesn't want to be here.
She doesn't really want to leave.
She doesn't want anything
but for everything to stop,
if only for a while.
The tragedy is
there's a peace sometimes
in disappearing.
(She no longer remembers her mother's face)
And yet,
Temperance knows
that there are 24 hours in a day
and 60 minutes in an hour;
she knows that, tomorrow,
today will be
yesterday.
Good or bad,
everything eventually becomes a memory.
Sometimes it's best to forget,
to pretend that you can.
Sometimes you don't have a choice.
(The body remembers everything)
…Keep it moving.
Don't look back.
She's got scars on her feet,
that's the thing,
a worn-out pair of tennis shoes
blackened
deeper & darker
with every step.
It's like a procession without the ending;
pillars of salt
between each toe,
trailing like breadcrumbs.
She remembers hearing once
that white roses express grief,
innocence,
love;
her unseen petals are wilting
and pressed between the pages.
No one seems to notice,
including her.
It's only a symbol, anyway,
of something else,
the garbage bag waiting by the door.
It doesn't have to mean anything.
Restless fingers picking, clenching--
stop.
Four tiny crescents on her palm, there before she knows it,
her own private galaxy;
at least it's precise.
She can hear them through the walls,
her foster parents,
pounding closer,
fading away,
busy
doing all they can
to die just a little bit faster.
It's a house on fire,
but they don't know it.
They sit there & burn.
It sets her teeth on edge,
body stiff,
shoulders curling.
She cannot feel it
when they hug her,
when they try.
Some do try, after all,
until they don't.
(They mostly don't)
It's hard to watch
and act surprised
when it's over.
And it is over
in all the ways that matter
but one.
Death is but one and comes but once
For some, there are many practice runs.
Temperance is so, so tired
of the word
goodbye.
Hearing it,
saying it,
expecting it.
It's exhausting, but
she's getting much better
at turning away;
she has to.
Muscle memory in her sadness,
in her veins,
she believes she's getting stronger.
It's really nothing
but the same promises repeated again & again.
In the clear light of day,
all the guilty words
of good intentions & righteous mores
have a funny way
of losing their meaning.
Who do they even think they're kidding?
Their ambitious smiles
are like nails on a chalkboard.
These new beginnings never last.
A half-assed honeymoon phase
is what it is,
the entire thing--
vaguely insulting to her intelligence.
Take care, okay?
She knows the truth;
the bald-faced kind
that lurks in the dark,
succinctly whispering
three little words.
(nobody wants you)
***
There's a simplicity behind closed lids,
a solid stillness
within pain,
that holds its ground
even when the sky above
is falling down.
Ruth Keenan
learns this quickly on the run,
then relearns it
with each haunted morning
that passes her by,
alone.
Except she's not alone,
not really;
it's just that her arms
don't know that.
They dream in the night of their two lost children,
one for each hand,
fighting their way past endless currents.
They're trying
as best they know how
to make their way home.
It's an ache that never gives up.
Holding the curve of one position
Her head won't stay above water;
the shore is too far away.
She's not going to make it.
Her sisters' voices
reverberate in the dark,
searching & asking--
unrecognizable
facsimiles.
"Weren't we something good?"
They're only copies, like her.
Christine Brennan.
That's not her name.
Her past has been snuffed out,
and she was the accomplice
to the crime.
There aren't enough handcuffs in the world.
There are so few
who will remember her
for who she really was.
Whoever,
whatever
that means.
What will it even stand for
when all is said and done?
She needs to know.
She has to believe
they'll be okay.
Today is her daughter's sixteenth birthday.
She won't be there to see it.
Outwardly, she appears calm.
On the inside,
she is tearing down walls
and making bargains
with the ceiling.
It's not fair.
She wonders
if they will ever meet again.
The pain in her head
tells her no.
The pain in her heart
repeats yes,
yes.
Always, yes.
There is no other option.
One way or another,
she's not going down without a fight.
As for Max,
he never thought he'd stay on this Earth long.
He came from nothing
and assumed he'd end with nothing.
Simple as that.
He only wanted to stay as long as he could--
the trademark of a survivor.
The day they met, he smiled, slow & wide,
and told her, "You just changed everything."
She told herself
that she didn't know what that meant,
but she did.
And she does now.
She's here for a single purpose.
Off on the other side of the park,
there are children shouting,
pushing,
spinning 'round & 'round.
It's only a silly game,
but everything is serious
when you're young.
She remembers.
She never truly considered that there'd be an end.
It was always out of reach.
Her mother called her an idealist,
a day dreamer,
a flower child.
"Find someone to pull your head out of the clouds," she'd say. "That's my advice."
Marrying a brilliant science teacher seemed like a reasonable way to go.
Little did she know,
however,
they'd come up with dreams of their own.
Two, in fact. Smart & wild, more than a handful.
Just like her.
By then,
her mother was long gone,
and soon enough
so was she.
All that she has left of her now
is this small ring.
'Round & 'round.
(A pocket full of posies)
It's odd,
staring into the mirrored eye of a camera,
seeking out a connection that's not yet there.
Their time is all out of sync.
Someday, she hopes to make
the two ends meet.
Until then, this is all she has.
One more chance
to say hello,
to say goodbye,
to remind her
of who she really is.
"Remember this: you were cherished in this world."
That's a wrap, as they say.
It needs to be enough.
It has to.
To her far left,
there's a lone blue-eyed girl
focused on the sand,
biting her lip,
and glaring at the birds,
forming a perfect castle for one,
or maybe for two.
There's no telling
what will come of her fine work
once she calls it a day.
Maybe that's the point.
Maybe
the best-laid plans
no longer belong to
anyone, really,
once their creator
has walked away.
There's no perfect blueprint,
it turns out,
to keep the outside
out
or the inside
in.
Her arms don't care.
They're tapping a morse code
up & down her spine--
S.O.S., S.O.S.;
they still haven't gotten the original message.
She suspects they never will.
Maybe that, too,
is the point.
***
"What about Lily?"
"Nope. Jane."
Brennan curls into Booth's neck,
breathing him in,
noting his quiet sigh in return.
She's too tired to mince words.
One night
here,
in this bed, with this breath,
is so much more.
A lifetime of nights
is something else entirely.
She could sink right into this mattress.
"Okay. What is it with you & 'Jane'?"
She looks up. He's already staring her down, morning bed-head pointing every which way, no match for her eye-crusties. They make quite a pair.
"Jane -- like Jane Goodall. Obviously."
He snorts. "Of course. I mean, why else?"
She rests her head back down, smiling. "I'm pleased you agree."
Palm sliding across her back, he shakes his head in response. "No. No way. Us agree? Never."
"You seemed to agree last night."
Booth's hand stops. "What? We never even talked about baby names last night."
She's sneaky when she's naked. He should've known.
Bones gives him an exaggerated wink. It's not a little on the awkward side, but she's honestly pretty cute when she tries, just in general.
He hopes she never gives up.
"Ooh. You just made a joke, didn't you?" His fingers tickle her waist.
"Booth!" The cocky smile on her face quickly morphs into a frown. "You know I dislike tickling."
"Sorry." It's a struggle not to laugh. Still, he does his best to appear contrite. The thing is, she's even cuter when she's annoyed--finicky genius nose all bunched up like a surprise mouthful of sour grapes.
Will their daughter like grapes?
All day long, this is the type of thing he wonders.
It leaves him utterly defenseless.
This thing between them,
the words that speak when mouths are closed,
always has.
The soldier in him no longer minds;
he's more than ready to lay down arms.
It's been a long campaign.
In truth, he never really saw this coming
and somehow missed it before it did.
Fatherhood arrived in much the same way.
He can't help but wonder
what comes next.
One skilled troop of phalanges makes its way south, abruptly stealing him from his thoughts. "You know I wasn't really serious about 'Jane', anyway. It's a bit old-fashioned."
Her left pinky just invaded Brazil. Is he still supposed to be listening?
"You weren't?"
"No. But I find that my Pinochle Face gains a great deal of efficacy as far as you're concerned once my bra's been removed."
Like he said. Sneaky. Also, Pinochle Face?
Really, Bones?
He eyes her busy fingers, musing dryly, "I thought you were tired."
She grins. "I'm practicing my Itsy Bitsy Spider technique."
Both of Booth's eyebrows shoot up. "That's not how it's done, babe."
"This is the adult version."
Well.
He rolls her over. "Maybe 'Jane' isn't such a bad name after all."
There's that face again. "Yes, it is."
"You see? I told you we never agree."
And she wouldn't have it any other way.
***
It's been said
that those who suffer
know how to be grateful.
Those who cry
know how to smile.
At seventeen years old,
Temperance has only got
one down,
but practice makes perfect.
Supposedly.
For what it's worth
(and it's worth a lot),
she will get there eventually,
though she doesn't know that yet.
What she does know
is that she doesn't understand;
those three little words,
what they even mean,
exactly how
people do
what they do,
the looks on their faces as they carry on;
she's always left behind.
Though, perhaps,
that map was flawed from the start.
It might be the
other way around--
lost generations of tortoises
lapping the hare from behind.
She remembers
her dogged big brother finding her
on one long, unannounced walk after the other,
begging her to slow down,
yelling
that she was going to worry
their parents to death.
He used to jokingly call them her walkabouts
and apologize
for the lack of sand,
as if he were personally responsible for the Earth.
Each & every time,
he'd raise his eyes to the clouds,
seeking out patterns,
as she explained once again
what a walkabout really meant,
crossed her arms against her chest
& exhaled in a short, staccato refrain:
"People. don't. die. from. worry."
Sticks & stones may break my bones, but words…
Later, after dragging her home,
he'd announce to no one in particular,
"We need to put a bell on this one. Like a cat."
Their father had only one response:
"Our Tempe was born a wanderer. You leave her alone, she'll land on her feet. She just needs a soft place to fall."
He was always more concerned that Russ
would be the child to stray
and not return.
These days,
she still sometimes takes off,
but now
there's no one showing up
to find her.
In a week,
she'll be leaving for college.
There certainly won't be anyone for her there,
waiting in the wings,
wiping their eyes with a smile.
It'll just be her, some boxes,
and a room.
She already has the key,
signed her name on the dotted line;
here, now, as it should be,
a place for everything
& every thing
in its place.
This time,
it is her home.
It is her bed.
She supposes that
it is her.
After all, who else would it be?
Picture-framed shadows stretch across her face,
dancing cheek to cheek,
irises blooming
between the sea & the sky,
concrete elements in motion.
It's already been such a long way.
(the clock strikes on the hour)
Behind the door,
she takes inventory--
pausing
just outside the flickering light.
On, off, on, off.
Ready?
Set.
Four blank walls, a broken sink,
and an open window
overlooking the street;
it's quiet here,
but she knows better than most
exactly how loud a sunrise can be.
Men & women in their suits,
boys & girls calling shotgun;
rise & shine.
Off they go each day.
They don't remember
the sucking white noise
of a pitch-black trunk;
the scent of gasoline that lingered in the air
as she numbly walked away;
the blood-red clouds
that erupted in her sleep, all night long--raining,
raining down.
There was nothing she could do.
Her silence enraged them.
Her voice confused them.
They could not stand
the sight of her.
If I just try harder, stand up straighter--
Jack & Jill
up on the hill
fetching their pail of water,
they don't see
the world she's seen.
They have their own problems.
Sometimes,
the old man downstairs,
the one who stands by the cornerstore,
shifting his feet,
hums when they pass & points to the ground.
No one sings along
except for her.
For once, she knows the words.
It won't do any good.
(I can't be what you want me to be. I can only be.)
She is free,
secluded, and ultimately on her own--
stale breadcrumbs buried
& forgotten--
but fortunately, she doesn't mind
keeping herself company.
It's the presence of others
that she could take or leave
most of the time,
or at least
that's what seems correct
after the blur of faces that made up her youth.
She never did get a prom.
Never made it through the door.
The things they thought of her,
she's still trying.
Still counting all the beats,
listening
for the thunder,
waiting for the lightning to strike.
She won't be caught by surprise again.
Her eyes are wide
open.
And yet,
years of her childhood
keep slipping through her fingers.
Hands frozen in the ice,
six feet below,
clawing
their way to the surface,
she can't bring them back.
All the memories--
her father's voice, gift-wrapped
souvenirs
of photogenic smiles on Christmas Day--
all sliced up to bits & projected
in reverse
on a nocturnal screen,
I miss you
on the tip of her tongue.
She's yet to speak the words aloud.
Not everything that's broken can be fixed.
What they were,
what they could've been,
what she is.
It's something new now.
She's determined to find some answers.
She won't stop until she does.
But that man in the gutter, he already knows
what she really wants,
what she can't say:
the impossible answer to one
single question.
Why?
***
It shouldn't surprise her
how light the skull is.
It shouldn't feel
like an anomaly.
Twisting it 'round in her hands,
this way, that way,
she finally has a grip
on what has eluded her all her adult life--
exactly what happened to her mother.
This is where she comes from;
right here,
tangible & true,
nine months & an eternity.
Full stop.
Before Joy
so much as took her first breath,
blindly clenched her brother's finger
with her fist,
& planned who she'd become,
she was but the spark of an idea
inside her mother's brain.
It doesn't explain
how the weight of the world
could now seem suddenly so insignificant.
Pain this heavy should surely leave a mark
on the Earth,
let civilizations know
for centuries to come,
"I was here. You're living proof."
The skull is no lighter than dozens she's held before.
It waited in the soil for years
amongst the plants & seeds,
rested in limbo
beside nameless boxes,
all laid out in a row, labeled with care.
The emptiness is merely an illusion,
a delusion
of the thalamus and cingulate gyrus,
not the heart
as Booth would like to say.
He'd insist
that the lightness of a mother's skull
has more to do with the heart of her child
than anything else,
that a soul
takes up more space
than she or Hodgins could ever measure
with a thousand mass specs.
Sometimes he makes no sense at all.
But she likes to hear his voice
when all else is silent, when the diner is deafening,
to see his face when he brings it in close,
like if he could just get
close enough,
neither of them would ever feel alone again.
She can still feel his arms around her--
warm fingers in her hair,
steady breath in her ear,
the smell of hay surrounding them.
There was no question he understood,
that he knew without a doubt
who she was.
She's not positive if she can still claim the same.
As an anthropologist, she knows very well
how the Ju/'hoansi name their children,
how the Torajan mourn their dead;
she doesn't know
how to bury Ruth Keenan.
It's Christine Brennan
that she'll put in that grave,
not some stranger.
She doesn't want to believe
Christine Brennan was a stranger.
She doesn't know what to think of her father.
Max Keenan
has been gone
since before she can even remember.
Matthew Brennan, the man she knew,
was never really there at all.
He didn't exist.
It was all a lie.
Wasn't it?
Whatever the case,
he's still out there, even now,
and has been for all these years--
changing names, changing faces,
nowhere to be found
when she needed him most.
It's so much easier to forgive her mother
when she knows she'll never see her again.
His voice on the machine was very much alive.
She didn't want to hear it
and was desperate to hear it,
all at the same time.
When she again hit play the following morning,
standing tall in her robe,
blinking fast,
Russ stepped forward without a word
& took her hand in his.
Once upon a yesterday,
he too was just a voice on the machine.
When she looks at him now,
something inside her, familiar & forgotten,
tugs strangely,
like it's being pulled out from within.
She wants to tell him,
You were my anchor. You weren't supposed to leave.
It was her idea to ask him to stay,
a leap of faith amidst outlandish prizes
& one would-be lover's
conspicuous gaze.
She'd never admit it, but
it's what she's wanted all this time--
for someone to stay.
Rationally,
she knows that's an unreasonable desire.
She can accept that.
Temperance Brennan prides herself,
and always has,
on being reasonable,
on accepting
the natural order of things.
This skull, these bones,
she can make sense of them
in a simple way her heart cannot.
She can step back, close her eyes,
and look at them
as if the rest of her
were somewhere far away.
For so long, this place,
the Jeffersonian,
has let her do that, has been
her home, her port in the storm.
It always keeps the lights on for her,
never leaves her in the dark.
Placing her mother's skull
back in the box,
she's still not ready
to say goodbye.
After all,
there's nothing here
to say goodbye to.
(Is there?)
This isn't her mother,
once vibrant and kind;
it's not anything that knows her
or the things she's seen;
and yet,
she remains.
Counting an endless repetition
She won't pretend to know why.
***
"Sweetie, will you promise me something?"
Brennan looks up from her lap. In her arms, Michael Staccato Vincent Hodgins
is squirming about, legs kicking the air.
His feet are so small.
She can fit one, whole, in the palm of her hand.
It's a happiness that almost hurts
when she thinks of
what's to come.
At one point in her life, she would've asked
what the promise was for.
Now, she just nods.
"Please don't leave." There's a glass of champagne in Angela's hand, slightly raised, as if she were preparing a toast.
After all this time, they've earned one.
"I don't mean never leave at all. God knows you & Booth could use a honeymoon; I just mean, don't…leave."
Brennan shakes her head, confused. "I don't have any plans to leave. Also, Booth and I aren't married. A honeymoon would require that we be wed."
Angela sighs, but not impatiently. This is how it always goes.
"I know you're not planning to leave. What I'm asking is, will you stay? Just like this--as long as you can?"
Michael's feet are still kicking, like he already wants to get up & run away.
She understands how he feels.
The funny thing is,
he'll spend his entire childhood racing
to be an adult; when he grows up,
he'll miss this--being held,
not for any specific reason,
but just because.
She suspects that she'll miss it too,
her arms around him,
all of human history between them.
He doesn't even realize yet
what gravity can do,
but he trusts her not to let him fall.
Just like that,
he trusts her.
A sudden tightness is beginning to build in her throat,
climbing its way up.
She could blame it on hormones,
but she knows what her friend is really asking,
and it makes her want to apologize
for no reason.
"I can't promise you that, Ange. No one can. It's not possible to live forever."
Steadying herself, she breaks eye contact,
wondering
if this is one of those moments
where all the words in the world
could never be good enough.
Angela doesn't mind either way. She never has.
She doesn't need all the words,
just the notes.
1, 2, 3, 4.
(we all fall down)
"Will you try anyway? For me?"
Brennan swallows;
decades of living caught beneath her tongue,
the tiny heart
ticking in her womb;
there's only one acceptable answer she can give:
"Yes." One quick beat -- "Always."
(down your back like a book of blessings)
Angela nods, satisfied. "Good, because you're never getting rid of me. I hope you've figured that out by now."
She has.
She knows
what that means.
"I love you too, Ange."
In the end,
it's not a promise.
It's the truth.
***
The first thing she sees
at the foot of her mother's grave
are the fresh-cut daffodils
bound together as one
with a single white ribbon.
I know you, Bones.
They should seem out of place here--
a symbol of life amongst the dead,
gifted to those
whose eyes will forever stay closed--
but they don't.
They, too, are only alive in spirit,
plucked unexpectedly from the Earth.
And yet,
here they are,
heralding the rite of spring.
She already knows they're not from Max;
he's standing right beside her
with a grand bouquet
of long-stemmed roses, stark-red
& fragrant against his black winter coat.
Today is Mother's Day.
The weather
is temperamental,
caught in flux between one season and the next.
Every breath gets its own punctuation mark, making itself known.
She wouldn't exactly call it unpleasant.
She wouldn't call it anything else either.
It just is.
Kneeling forward,
her father lays the bouquet gently down
on the ground,
pale clouds billowing from his mouth.
Primary colors, she thinks.
Missing one.
(a silent tribute)
She didn't bring anything with her
save the small portrait in her hand.
Black & white--
a study in contrasts
shared.
Just like them.
"You didn't tell me Booth had already been here. You must've known." Temperance turns to her father, waiting.
It's not a question; it's an answer.
He hums in agreement, staring distantly,
one finger tracing
the shallow etchings on the stone.
Christine Brennan.
In memoriam.
"Russ couldn't come. I think Booth saw it as his duty--as a sort of quasi-son-in-law, you might say. I told him that you'd be here, that we both would."
Standing, Max sweeps the dirt off his pant legs, still facing forward. "He's a good man, Tempe. Your mother would've liked him. Even I like him."
She can't help but smile a bit at this. If he'd had his way, there would've been a real-life shotgun wedding at the FBI, complete with his & hers bullets.
Blanks, of course,
but it's the thought that counts.
"I like him too, Dad."
Amused, he directs a pointed glance toward her middle. "Well, that's no secret. Not that it ever really was, mind you, for either of you two kids. Might as well have hired a skywriter."
Indeed.
There would've been no shortage
of eager pilots, that's for sure.
"I miss her, you know."
Startled, Brennan holds in a breath,
unsure how to properly respond.
The transition is too abrupt.
She is still sometimes that
hollow-mouthed girl inside,
tripping over the rules, afraid to look back,
unable to move forward.
She keeps going anyway.
Sooner or later,
she always finds her way,
even if she has to pave the road herself.
"I miss her every day. Even when I don't realize it." Max pauses, briefly.
"I know you do, too."
She allows for a quick nod, smoothing the picture in her hand. "I've grown accustomed to it."
"I don't think that's really something you can grow accustomed to, sweetheart." He shakes his head, gestures around them. "You know, people only say that time heals all wounds because they wish it were true. But you still carry that pain with you wherever you go, and it never stays the same. It changes, just like you do."
Fighting frustration, she wants to turn away,
but she won't.
People are always
telling her what she feels,
what she should feel,
masking their own feelings
in the process.
It's not wrong, but it's not right either.
There's more than one way to heal,
more than one kind
of wound.
"Except I wasn't really given a choice, was I?"
His eyes flicker with something; she's not sure what. She can't make him out. "No. No, you weren't. But you shouldn't have to get used to it."
Unbidden, an image appears
all at once in her mind--
a young Zack
sitting calmly at his station, peering up
& out at her from somewhere within himself--
only a memory.
Don't listen to what people say, Dr. Brennan. Listen to what they don't say.
She remembers
how she stood there & stared after him,
dumbfounded,
one arm halfway into her lab coat.
That doesn't make any sense, Zack.
His mouth hung open as she spoke,
like he couldn't wait to get his next thought out fast enough,
as if there were never enough time.
She remembers that, too,
the way he'd leap into a reply, into everything he did,
all or nothing.
I know. That's what I just told Angela, but then she walked away without explaining. What does it mean?
Angela. Of course.
Her next guess would've been Booth.
It doesn't mean anything. It's not physically possible to listen to something that's not said.
He nodded & returned to work. If she didn't know better, she'd have said he looked relieved.
If she'd known differently,
if she'd been able
to save him,
she would have.
But she didn't,
and she couldn't.
It still weighs heavily
after all these years,
irrational as that may be.
Everyone wants
to protect someone;
longing for the impossible
is an ache that knows
no beginning
and has no end.
Back in the present,
she bends to the ground
& lets the picture go--
right between the roses
& the daffodils, an ideal meeting place
for all the people
they have been.
She doesn't bother talking to the headstone
to announce whose baby it is
in the photo;
some things don't need to be said.
Some things fall through the cracks,
too slippery
for words.
Perhaps that is what Angela meant
all along.
Her father clears his throat. "I know there's no way to turn back time. I know that we do what we have to do in life to get by. I just wish I could fix all of this for you. For me. For Russ."
He slowly grips her hand, holding on tight,
the cool touch of a silver
fin against his palm.
He hasn't forgotten.
All those sleepless nights,
the months & years
that passed in an instant, the look
on his wife's face as she returned from the park;
together, they lit sixteen candles
and blew them all out.
(the house opened up wide)
She was their greatest wish
right from the beginning,
the final piece in a flawless puzzle.
One big happy family.
"I learned a long time ago that you don't have to die to stop living. I never wanted that for you."
She isn't you. She's her, and you're you. You're alive, and she's dead.
Her hand still in his, she grasps back. "I'm not dead, Dad. I'm very much alive."
Eyes on the horizon, breathing
in & out--making her mark,
seeking out patterns;
it's okay.
Life
is a work
in progress.
"I may be used to it, but I do feel it. I do miss her. At times, I even miss you."
Before he can interject, she continues. "I realize that makes no sense. I can see you anytime I want now, but…"
His chin tucks down, eyebrows raised. She doesn't need to explain.
"But that wasn't always the case."
Dropping her hand, she holds his gaze. "No, it wasn't; however, I'm glad you're here."
Some things do
need to be said.
(there's no turning back)
He shares a small smile in return.
There's no way to make it right,
but that doesn't mean
it can't get better.
They came here together
in the same car, side by side,
arguing
over the radio.
For more than a decade, that would've been impossible.
Occasionally,
a left turn
is exactly what's right.
He closes his eyes, letting the moment sit;
he can imagine
four pebbles skipping
over the surface of a pond,
one hand waving goodbye,
the beginning and the end.
"You ready?"
There's a single tear
trailing down
the side of her face.
She'll cry if she wants to.
And she does
want to.
It's time…
(one girl's shadow behind the door)
It's safe now
to come outside,
to leave it all
behind.
They're waiting for her.
Her bags
are packed;
the sun is falling.
All the things that
gravity can do--
she's no longer afraid
to jump.
And so,
she leaps.
"Yes. Take me home."
---
Fin
---
---
And that's it! As promised, here's a list of citations for direct quotes:
-Bereft, Robert Frost.
-Here's the Church.
-How To Be Alone, Tanya Davis.
-Humpty Dumpty.
-Sunrise, Sunset, Bright Eyes. (just the song title, but still)
-It's My Party, Lesley Gore.
-I Measure Every Grief, Emily Dickinson.
-Devotion, Robert Frost.
-Ring Around the Rosies.
-"Life is a work in progress" can be credited to my good friend keenai. She told me that recently, and I decided a shout-out was in order here. Heh.