stoical - l.h.

prologue

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The day seemed too bright to have ended in such a violent, jarring storm. Before the skies opened and dropped sheets and sheets of fat raindrops, the sun shone brightly and warmly, peeking out strongly through thin white clouds which eventually gathered into foreboding grey masses which seemed just as utterly hopeless as this life. The afternoon, however, was nothing like this. On the contrary, the sky, with its wispy clouds and blue for miles, heard the giggles and laughs from below, from the family of three which sat upon the rolling hills of Pennsylvania and seemed to find everything funny, from the purple wildflowers which grew sparsely all around, to the very many squirrels which chewed and crawled and climbed. It seemed as though the sky heard these calls and had just one thought, which could have been along the lines of, Oh, what a shame. It was sad, wasn't it, that these things did not last? Whoever said that everything good came to an end was right, very right, because nothing good ever lasted for as long as one may have wanted it to last.

The fact of the matter is that bad things don't last very long either. So even though the sun grew wan and began to hide by the thick, rolling clouds, in the morning, the sun would come back out and would shine even brighter than the day prior. The clouds dispersed, the water evaporated and left the pavement dry, and the flowers on that very hill perked up again, refreshed by the long drink of water they'd just gotten and ready for another day of basking in the sunlight.

When the family arrived at the hill, parked their car beside it and ran all the way to the top, grasping their picnic basket, blankets, they clearly weren't thinking about how their day would end. How, eventually, the sun would go down and cold, dark night would take hold. How, soon, fights would break out among them that would shatter something they didn't even realise was there. How the baby in the mother's stomach would be born, and eventually be a teenager who resented his or her parents for nothing more than being parents. The little girl in the dress and white tights, with flowing white-blond hair would grow out of the hairbows and buckled shoes, and maybe trade them in for harsh words and endless anxiety, but not because she wanted that. Because she had to defend herself. No one wants for things to end, do they? Maybe some, but surely not for the right reasons.

As the three sat around their basket, munching on sandwiches and taking sips of sour lemonade, the little girl, named for her mother's favorite flowers, would look up at her dear mother and say something innocent, like, "Mommy, when will my sister be here?" She'd poke her mom's stomach with a tiny finger and try and see the baby through the stomach, unsuccessfully, of course.

"Oh, and what makes you think it's a girl?" her mother would ask teasingly, leaning into her daughter with the light of a million sunsets in her eyes. The young girl's father would stare at the two wonderful women in front of him, wondering how he'd gotten so lucky. He'd swallow hard so he didn't get all teary-eyed, trying to look 'manly' in front of his favorite girls.

"It has to be! It just has to be," the young girl would say. Blue eyes wide, blonde hair a halo in the setting sun.

"And why is that, sweet girl?" the mother would say, gentler than a feather's touch.

"Because. I want a sister more than a brother!"

"Is that so?" the father would chime in, smiling with his eyes and his heart. "What would be so bad about a little brother, huh?"

The young girl would look a bit puzzled, trying to think real hard about all the reasons a sister would be better than a brother. She wouldn't be able to come up with much, other than the fact that she didn't really know any boys besides her father, which meant she didn't know much about them. She preferred a girl, was all, since she was a girl herself.

Her parents would laugh, her mother reaching over to run her fingers through her little girl's soft, gently curling hair. "I think, whether the baby is a girl or a boy, or anything in between, you will love it no matter what."

The little girl would giggle as her mother kissed her on the nose quickly. They would continue to eat, and as the sun began to descend toward the horizon as nighttime approached slowly, the young girl's mother would take out her precious camera and take the most beautiful photos of her girl. These photos would be forgotten, soon, but never disposed of. Never gone. Always there, but hidden, so that no one ever saw them, remembered what it was like. Remembered that, once, this family was the happiest it could be. Happier than most other families, filled with so much joy and happiness it could not be contained. And maybe that is why the young girl's mother decided having one child just wasn't enough for her. With such a big heart and so much love to give, another child in the world deserved to grow up that happy. The young girl deserved it too, and she was getting that opportunity, until she wasn't anymore. Until she couldn't anymore.

As it has been proven, nothing lasts forever. Not even if it is the most magnificent thing you could ever think of. Not even life lasts forever. They didn't know the end of that night was the end of so much more. Normalcy, for example. Sweet, splendid normalcy. Often brushed over and scorned, but a gift nonetheless.

As the mother of the little girl turned to look at her daughter in the back seat of the car on the ride home, she'd smile at the sleepy, dazed look in her eyes. The little girl would be half falling asleep, half dreaming but half apart of reality; an ironic trait that may have stuck with the child too firmly.

"Is she okay?" the mother's husband would ask, looking mildly concerned, but mostly just content. Happy.

"More than okay," she would reply. Voice quiet, soft. "My sweet Lavender. How did we get so lucky?"

Her hand would go to her pregnant belly, feeling the immensity of the future that was to come. A friend for Lavender, a new tiny person to get to know and to teach. The future seemed as bright as the sunset they'd had, and it really was a shame that sunsets ended, wasn't it?

"We did that," the father would say, a smile in his voice. He'd follow it up with a light laugh, so as not to disturb his tired daughter.

"We sure did," the mother would respond matter-of-factly, jutting her chin out in a joking manner. Laughs would follow once again. "We did that."

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