Gaia's Tears

I

Lachrymology

Lachrymology.(noun). The study of crying as therapy.

She stands barefoot on the cold shore of an empty lake. The stars are out, but they do not shine. Here they merely glimmer, as if buried under many thousands of leagues of water, like pearls in the murk. Her hair is made of olive branches and her garments are of the appearance of gossamer windswept clouds. Stolid is her posture, yet it is obvious she is in mourning. Her face is a waterfall for the unnumbered tears that flow freely forth from her crystalline eyes. Here they collect and fill this lake for which there is no end. The sky is a hue that is hard to put a finger on; some might say it was pre-dawn; others might simply think it was overcast with cloud. The unnatural stillness of the water is beyond serene. The air has no scent, but it is stuffy to breathe. Despite the never-ending stretch of water before her, the acoustics here seem as those of a small, enclosed space. No echoes follow her sobs. The emptiness in the atmosphere precipitates abysmal melancholy. The silence here is final, absolute, infinite.

She stands here at this point in time not by choice, but by charge. She cries because she must; the lake is almost full.

As an omen, her father approaches from behind her, through the mist that is not within her foresight. His presence for her is at once comforting, but also one that fills her with a sickening sense of doom. He places a loving hand upon her naked shoulder, but she flinches at first because he is electric to the touch. He smiles warmly.

“Do not be afraid, daughter.”

And somehow, at the sound of his words, she is completely reassured, through and through. His hand comforts her again and this time it is tender and warm, and she reaches up and places her hand over his.

“I was just reflecting, a while,” she speaks, a quiet voice that does not give evidence of her deep wisdom. Her eyes remain trained on a point somewhere over the horizon. To look upon her face, one would find it difficult to place an age on such a thing. To come closer to her and meet her azure eyes, one would gaze into a pale eternity of misery that is without redemption. Her tears do not cease.

“I know.”

“I don’t know why, but it makes me sad, still, the coming of the sun.”

An expression of amusement and love crosses his face. He draws breath and speaks to her, as if explaining a simple triviality to a child. Perhaps he was.

“Daughter, we cannot change the passage of time any more than we can change the essence of the water. The sun will come and the sun will go, and so shall you with it. It is alright to be apprehensive: your day in the sun will be overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating, difficult and joy-filled all at once. Embrace it, as those have before you. It is all you can hope to do.”

At this, she giggles for the first time in her existence. It is a sound that ripples the water and, in turn, breaks the dawn. The horizon catches fire and suddenly there is noise! Horrendous and beautiful and chaotic and harmonious all at once! She smiles a smile that blows a sharp wind over the water and rolls the waves away from the shoreline. Father and daughter, they smile together on the edge of the day. She turns to face him, and remembers how wonderful he is. He bends at the waist and holds her hair back to plant a kiss on her forehead. She closes her eyes and feels it is time.

“Go…”

She grins at him and can barely hold back her excitement: she can taste it. She laughs again, louder, fuller, richer, and hugs her father deeply. At this, even he is surprised, and he laughs with her. Without another word, she turns and dives into the water. Her garments leave her body as she cuts her first few zealous strokes through the building waves. Within moments, the sun has crept past the edge of the water and she is silhouetted in heat.

He watches her for as long as he can, shading his eyes with his hand from the dawn. He last sees her, fading off, swimming toward the sun.