The Northern Lights

Chapter 6. Eyelash that Spirals.

France, 1990

Eden's body sways upwards and forwards, a surge of kinetic energy travels from his legs and through the air. As his body thrusts forward, Eden's innocent, almost feminine hands grip the rusted metal chains that keep him from flying forward. His gaze becomes fixed on the clouds that float sluggishly from right to left. He is a pendulum. His feet dangle from the swing, colliding with the bark below his feet. Eden's Grand-mère used to take him to this park every Sunday after Church, when his feet were too high up to touch the bark. But she is fragile now, his mama tells him, like a precious ball of glass.

The colossal ball of fire that was, according to Eden's science teacher, 8 light minutes away from Earth's surface gleams above the distant shrubs and trees, like a coat of honey that blankets the green. Azra slinks towards Eden. His heart quickens by more than just a beat. They have been dating for three months now, each one moving quicker than the last.

"Bonjour!" she gleams, brunet eyes glistening in the spring sunlight.

He thinks to himself for a long second before responding, the swing is no longer violent, "Marhabaan!" he butchers the Arabic greeting, each syllable dragged out for too long.

Azra chuckles, "That was horrible," she says flirtatiously, before joining Eden on the swing set.

"Shut up," Eden mocks the way her French used to sound when she was just a mere stranger who had walked into his maths class, "Bongjaw!"

Their chuckles combine with the chains that racket and blow in the wind, clinking and squeaking as Azra raises herself upon it. They begin their ascent, legs rocking softly back and forth like the wind. To a stranger, they look far too old to be on a set of swings. Anyone that knows them well enough, wonders if they will ever grow up.

A flock of birds scatter in the distance from a tree they call home. They expand into different directions, panicking as though a musket had just been fired. Each silhouette of the winged animals detonates like fragments of shrapnel from a chaotic grenade. Aimlessly.

Azra and Eden hear a rattle of wings and a whoosh of fresh air push against them as their bodies fall forwards and backwards. They tease in competition, trying to go higher than the other. Trying to become closer to the distant sky.

Their ascent stalls, in speed, and in height, as they notice the blazonry image of a star, 8 light minutes away, clipping the horizon. A mirage they always chased but were never able to touch. They stare in silence. Another breeze clips their skin, one of Azra's eyelashes falls, hitching a ride with the invisible push. It's carried by the wind, where it spirals hopelessly towards the earth, never to be seen again, just like the sunset they begin to witness.

They were both old enough to live each day with the notion that their lives were finite. That they would never have the opportunity to relive any moment ever again. That this would be the only time they would be able to spectate this very sunset, on this very day, ever again. Every detail would be carved into stone. The way Eden's heart pounded as he admired Azra's smile in awe. How the birds rippled away from the tree, their feathery wings flapping against the searing of the sun collapsing below the Earth's surface, the blemishes of hopeful pink and goddess orange it left behind.

They know that each day they live, is another eyelash being ripped away; not by wind or gravity, but by a fixed unrelenting force stronger than they could ever imagine. Time. Though they have not spoken aloud about the fear, or rather, the painful truth, they both recognize that it is inescapable. That they would rather spend their limited days with each other rather than alone.

Their swings chains are silent now, they no longer squeak or stretch. Their hands dangle beside each other like a set of swings. Half the sun has been engulfed into the ground. Eden's fingers fall onto Azra's soft hand, like snow gracefully falling onto a mountain top. He is gentle she thinks. Both pairs of eyes are still locked onto the sun, they should blink to keep their eyes from becoming damaged, and yet their eyelids stay open, still like medusa's victims. Their fingers are intertwined. Their souls are tangled. This sunset is the first of many. And yet is the last of one.