Staccato

Fragile Night

~*~

I think our souls instinctively know where we come from.

The elements that make us were formed in the hearts of dying stars, which exploded, violent and heavenly in its beauty, and set into motion the chain of events that would form planets, and thence, star systems that have them trapped in their orbits.

But the chances of the elements in one of those planets assembling together in a perfect combination that formed life?

The chances of that first ribosome that was the beginning of all of our stories coming into existence?

It is one in 10^158, a number so extraordinarily big that it couldn't possibly have happened even in 14 billion years, the age of our Universe.

And yet, it happened. We're here, almost supernaturally having beaten the odds.

Those ribosomes were assembled in the oceans...

Perhaps that is why we feel a compelling attraction to those colossal bodies of water, whether we stand on a shore, bracing ourselves with light-headed joy against the strong saline winds, against the pull of tides, or whether we let go and join in, warm waters enveloping in waves, thrashing hard one moment, swilling gentle the next.

And since the elements that made the womb we all came from - the oceans themselves, the planets themselves - since those elements had their fiery births in the dying core of stars, perhaps that's the reason why we feel an even stronger pull to these star-strewn skies.

The same that I feel right now, sitting under it.

But what could explain this undeniable, compelling pull that I feel to the one sitting next to me, in this magical moment that seems so fragile that it doesn't even seem it should exist?

My eyes are blinking wide in the starry darkness, and the grass feels soft and bristly under my hand. I turn my wrist and grab hold of a few and pull them out absentmindedly, the smell of earth, of fresh grass and dry leaves suffusing the place, while my mind stays seared on the giddy, frightful sense of fulfilment in my heart. It's counterintuitive, this frightful sense of fulfilment.

I cannot process the absolute simplicity of events that led us to this moment.

We stepped down from the footbridge, mildly complaining of the cold wind. But the night seemed too magical, and he was telling me how he hates the type of long business speeches that must be being presented right now in the hall. I nodded in bashful agreement, and we walked toward the trees...

And here we are, sitting side by side, under the mottled moonlight spilling in through the branches of the oaks and sycamores.

The same place that has always been my retreat, where I have sat like this, in quiet contemplation, or in silent marvel of the unchartered, deep distances above me.

Cold wind blows tonight, fitfully harsh and gentle, and I almost hear a wistful song of epochal changes in her gusts.

"Well," I mumble, heart thudding. "Welcome to my retreat."

Efrim, who was silently sitting looking far out into the horizon of the dark lake and the trees, turns his starkly moonlit face toward me, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Your retreat?"

"Yeah," I whisper the softest laugh, slight warmth rushing up my neck and my ears. "I'm usually found here, if I am not answering my phone and am sending the people looking for me into a tizzy."

"Oh," Efrim still hasn't taken his eyes off of mine, "And what do you do here?" he asks me simply.

"Just.." I shrug; it is an unanticipated, slightly cornering question, and yet, a casual, reasonable one - I could be building a tree house in the woods perhaps, or I could be digging holes here, or studying plants here, or clicking pictures here. I desperately try to formulate a coherent reply in my head so I wouldn't trip on my tongue when I speak - my brain, my heart, my blood - everything having kicked into an overdrive as I analyse his question, weigh the possible replies to it, which are obviously wide and abstract and closely connected to my person.