A/N: This is to a dear, dear friend of mine that I’ve just realized I don’t appreciate nearly enough.
Rory
I’d be lost without her.
That’s what makes me sad.
The most beautiful souls emerge from darkness. The kindest of people know the worst of secrets. And she is undoubtedly the kindest of them all. She walks through life with a mindset of dark beauty, thinking that, since she cannot warm her own cold experiences, she may at least offer others pearls of knowledge and tender comfort in their darkest hours. Her tongue is gilded with wisdom beyond her meager age, and the beauty that shines brilliantly within her is reflected in the beauty of her pale features.
I may laugh at her at times, amused by her flower headbands and the intoxicating glittering of exotic fandoms. I may find myself wondering what the hell she could’ve been thinking at times. But I know her, I know her inside and out. I know her well enough to recognize that something’s wrong.
You can tell in her demeanor. Her wit is sharper than usual, her speech less often, her voice lower, and her eyes a tad bit spacier. The way she moves, the way she talks. I cannot explain how I know, not with words. But whenever she’s troubled or whenever a relapse of that dreaded darkness infiltrates her mind, I am aware of it.
Perhaps that’s why I bind myself so tightly to her, looking up to Rory the way a younger sibling looks at the eldest. I am afraid for her. After so long of looking after my own family because others were unable, I am accustomed to taking in those who need help. It pains me to see her hurting, to see the flatness in those dark eyes, pains me physically and darkens me emotionally. I wish I could reassure her, to smother any doubts and to fortify the strength she has naturally.
And yet experience has taught me better.
Sometimes, she doesn’t want a big hug and someone telling her it’ll be all better someday. Sometimes, she doesn’t want sympathy and other stories of sorrow to drown hers out. Sometimes, all she wants is me to be there.
Other times, I can’t be so sure, as her expressions are as choppy as Floridian waters in a furious cyclone.
But I believe in Rory. I believe in her trust of me. I know that, need be, she’ll talk to me. I believe that if she needs a helping hand or an ear to listen to her problems or simply a person to vent to, she’ll turn to me. I trust that she shouldn’t require me to pry rudely to comfort her. I trust that, when everything seems screwed up and the world itself is against her, she’ll be able to trust me. I trust that when she needs me, I’ll be here, and she knows that.
Rory doesn’t think she’ll amount to much. That’s what truly amuses me. Because, though I dare not breathe a word of it to her, she is amazing. Her control over words and sentences is unequivocal, her reign over rhyme and rhythm aweing. Though I have not heard a note of her precious oiled cello, I know that because of the reverence she treats it with, each song is beautiful.
I know that she’ll go far, with that wisdom earned from darkness and gloom. I know that someday, I’ll be reclining in an old chair with three cats on my lap and another one curled around my feet, and I’ll be watching the screen as she sits in an orchestra and strums away, or reading a compilation of beautiful poetry that I sure as hell don’t understand fully, or flipping through the pages of an inspiring novel.
Rory is beautiful.
Rory is amazing.
This, she does not see.
This, she does not understand.
But I see.
And I understand.
Someday, that girl with the flower headband is going to go further than I’ll ever dream of travelling. Not today. Not tomorrow.
But someday.
Thank you, Rory Panko, for all that you’ve taught me. I’m here for you like you were there for me. Always remember that.
