Lion Cross Point

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I hated it. Detested it. I just wanted to get away as soon as I could.

His mother’s whisper was like blades of grass, rustling, chafed by the wind. He tried to remember the expression on her face as she spoke, but he couldn’t. Wanting to recall her voice more clearly, he closed his eyes, and when he did so he saw grass—dry, sad, tired. The harder he tried to remember her voice the more chafed and torn the grass became. Patches of brown began to appear. Something was eating this wind-blown tangle, eating his mother’s voice. What was it? He peered deep into the green mass, and the brown patches grew. He was probably too young to realize that the pest feasting on the grass was his own longing, his yearning to remember his mother’s voice. If it kept on eating, it would soon form a chrysalis, taking the place of the bud it had consumed, and then form wings in place of the flower that would have grown. And then his mother’s voice, and not just her voice but her expression too, would be recovered. But, mixed with the fluids and fibers of the bug—like how a butterfly bears no resemblance to its caterpillar—both the voice and face would have become something entirely different. Soon, evening came. The faint light on the grass weakened and everything grew darker.

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