The roof of the house had a hole blasted out of it, beneath which we sleep, the two of us forced into a shared sleeping bag.
I held her tighter still in my arms, pressing her warmth against me.
My face is buried in her black curls that have gone unwashed so long. No longer is their the sweet smell of strawberry shampoo lingering in them.
Still it smells sweet to me.
The stars were clouds of whiteness in the stark darkness. The moon was hiding it’s face behind a veil of passing clouds.
She squeezes my hands in hers, murmurs secrets, whispers the name of God that had passed from all knowing.
The stars are not angels watching, but they are all that light us now.
The world man built is wiped clean. The cities empty. The sky without eyes.
We sleep in this house with it’s blasted roof, on a hard, uncarpeted floor. Drifting in and out of dreams. We hold to tight to each other, making sure each is still there when we wake.
Dreams of light and a garden and healing waters.
We dream of a child coming to us.
Two of us make one. Two made one make something new.
The child is dreaming even before coming to us.
The seed is planted, shall it grow?
High in the plains we’ve found a place to hide, a kind of Eden among the tall grasses and harsh hills and endless winds that blow through us like we were ghosts and not at all flesh.
If the child comes, faceless and new and too soon filled with sorrows, will it be like us, lost ones unsure and broken?
Is failure the soul of flesh?
Will there be another waiting for him? Will the flesh of humans fall away?
Me and her, in this house with it’s blasted roof, sleeping beneath the soft light of the stars, hold onto to life, and to the dream of something good.
The garden is ever and always out of reach.