"A Kiss of Change" by Marijke Mahieu

A flicker of light between my eyelashes. Non-revealing white is pushing hard to get through, but I won't open my eyes just yet. Too soon. Not only my eyes hurt, my mouth is sore as well. A burning sensation. In the dark I raise a hand and lightly touch my lips. Burned. My hand then instinctively reaches out and I feel a figure next to me. It feels hot, but the warmth is leaving by the moment. Soon it will be gone. It is always so. Where I am, he cannot be.

I wait.

~~~

The warmth still lingers in the air, but his presence is gone. It is safe.

I slowly open my eyes.

Everything is as it should be. The grass I'm laying on is moist with the morning dew and as I run my fingers through it, the drops of water linger on my fingertips. I raise them towards my lips to ease the burning. The pain ceases. My crisp white dress is already smeared with green patches and the dew is making it transparent in some places. This I know, although I cannot yet see it. I am still on my back in the grass running my fingers through the blades and the clover, a smile on my face. I revel in this feeling for it has been a long time since I truly felt again. The day is still young, though. This innocence won't last. This I know as well.

A breeze plays through the leaves of his birch tree which make them rustle in the air. I know this tree so well for I have waited by it many times in my slumbering state, my feet dangling in the nearby pond, watching the dragonflies hover between the lilies and the dark reed stems. At those times I liked to close my eyes and let the sounds of nature engulf me: the dry sound of the leaves, the splashing of the duck as it lands in the water, the wildflowers complaining about the heat, the ants crawling in their holes and the monotone slow sound of the birch bark steadily cracking under the constant growing of the tree year after year.

Now that I am awake, the smell of the dew is refreshing and I can feel the greenery being grateful for a bit of moist after the continuous heat. Change is in the air and it fills my nostrils. It smells new and exiting but at the same time it also scares me a little. I like the odour of hot-baked soil and the fragrant perfume of the many blossoming flowers and I don't want to loose this scent again. But sometimes their offering is so penetrating is makes my head dizzy. I am not made for this richness.

There is a soft red hue in the sky, flirting with the little clouds that populate the vast blueness. I cannot see the golden disk but I know it is there, in its full glory for the moment, shedding light and warmth on all the creatures of this world. My eyelids are still heavy. I would like to close them again and just remain in the grass, rub my fingers together with the dewdrops and let my skin soak up the sun's heat, but I know this cannot be. I must get up for I have a date at the weeping willow.

~~~

I slowly raise on my elbows. Yes, my dress is already stained, just like I thought. I never seem to be able to keep it white and clean, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that I make it in time. And since I have a long journey ahead, I should really start moving. I push myself up until I'm on my feet. They still feel a little wobbly, but that will soon disappear once I start walking.

I look back once at the pond and the birch tree. I came there when called, as always. And now that both his and my presence are gone some of the bright light and warmth already seems to diminish. I notice the duck has gone. It is probably miles from here now, searching for warmer places. Places where I have not been yet. I smile at the thought of the birds trying to stay one step ahead of me. They are clever.

The sun is high up in the sky now and I feel my skin getting warmer and warmer. I like this natural warmth and allow myself a few moments to bathe in the disc's light and heat. Soon enough the coldness will come back. I take what I can for now.

I see the hazel tree from a distance. Its branches hang quite low for they are heavy with nuts, all packed so carefully in their tough woody shells. This has been a prosperous round. On the ground near the tree a red squirrel, nervously scrambling around in the grass for food, suddenly notices my approach. It immediately raises on its hind legs, its paws flat against its chest. Even from a distance I can see its little nose twitching as it searches for my scent. I try to send it reassuring thoughts, but it will not have any of that. It emits a single screech to warn any other members of his kin, grabs a handful of foraged nuts and quickly heads for its cache. It is late. It had not expected me this soon.

When I reach the tree, I let my hand move lightly over the rough surface of one of the branches. At my touch a shiver goes through the wood which results in a large amount of nuts falling to the ground. Mister squirrel will have enough food to grab now, but I doubt he will be thankful. He has always run off at the sight of me. This is how it has to be. Although I am change, some things always remain the same.

Yes, he has been generous this time around. The flowers are blooming wonderfully. They have designed beautiful colour patterns on their petals, one flower trying to outdo the next one. A true spectacle. They eye me suspiciously, though, as I approach. And although I should have gotten used to their stares by now, I still feel a certain unease as I pass them. I do love flowers, I really do, but I can't help the fact that their fragile stems happen to break off with the light breeze that follows in my footsteps. I try not to look at the withered ones too much, because I can clearly sense their scorn. My shadow is powerful enough to block out their source of light and then they die. I don't mean to, but I can't help it.

I shed a single tear for them and move on.

I wish it would not have to be like this, that I could somehow overlook them. But I must pass the flowers. They are on my way to the willow.

~~~

I dig my toes deep in the dirt of the road while walking along. The ground is still quite hard and even though shovels have a hard time breaching it, I manage to plow the earth a little. I lay it open to receive the nutrition it so sorely needs. Soil is underrated. It should always be given back what it hands out. It's only fair.

My toes suddenly encounter something wet. A single puddle on the road. I don't even look down. I know it has started. The flowers told me so.

More clouds are covering the sky now and they even manage to hide the disc from time to time. It is still comfortably warm and I know it will remain so for a while yet. But gone is the blazing heat.

I look out over the green hills that roll as far as my eyes can see. The hills don't fear me. They will withstand whatever is coming without a doubt. Their appearance might alter a little each time, but they are an ancient certainty, almost as much as I am.

On top of the closest hill is a grove of poplars. Their bright yellow and gold leaves contrast highly with the brown bark and the green grass below. I remember the poplars. They are among my most favourite trees and I always stop here to admire their beauty. This wonderful display of colour appeals to me every single time and in the blink of an eye I am among the trees, stretching my arms high above my head.

And just then at the back of my mind something stirs. A memory. A warning. I am not sure what I'm trying to make myself remember here, but I dismiss the nagging sensation. The only thing that I do know is that I want to touch the colourful leaves and feel the intricate design of their veins, to run my fingers over their lifelines. I know the trees have painted their leaves just for me. As a tribute, a welcome back present. And I must cherish my gift.

But as my outstretched fingers reach the first leaf, the stem suddenly lets go of its branch and I stand helpless as the yellow leaf twirls downwards between my arms. I swallow. I didn't mean to do this. I try again.

But every time my fingertips brush over the edge of a leaf it comes down immediately and I grow ever more frustrated. A blanket of gold and yellow is already covering my feet. The leaves that fall onto my dress leave a yellow mark on it, but I do not care. I want to show the trees my appreciation. I want to tell them I enjoy the colourful spectacle they have prepared in my honour, but I don't want them to shed their most treasured possession on my account. I touch even more branches now, telling them they must hold on to their leaves so their beautiful gift to me remains unspoiled, but they won't listen.

I begin to panic and run through the grove now, arms outstretched, letting them glide over every bit of wood I encounter. I tell them no, not to do this for once, not to offer up their hard work, but the trees misunderstand me. The more I touch, the more leaves keep falling. The harder I run, the harder the wind blows in my footsteps, picking up the fallen canopy in my wake. Both trees, sky and ground are filled with gold and yellow. I remember now. This is what I was trying to warn myself for. This damage. Unstoppable. Soon the branches will be bare and the spectacle will end. I know I must leave.

Tears run freely down my cheeks now. Why do I always bring so much destruction? So much death? This is not what I want. But whatever I do, I cannot seem to stop it.

The mud sucks my feet into the ground and I leave a deep mark with every step I take. The sky has turned to gray and rain falls hard on the surface, just like the tears that drop down my face. I feel so sad and I know that the more I weep, the harder the rain will come down. But I can't help it. I do not have the power to alter this. I am change, but some things can never be changed, no matter how much I would want it. Some things are compulsory. Just like my date at the willow tree.

I run harder. I want it to end. I know it is early, but I start calling him.

~~~

My feet splash through the mud which leaves dark brown stains on the hem of my once white dress. Green, yellow, brown. I go almost unnoticed between the trees. A blur of dark colour in the wet scenery. Every tree I pass now shows a multitude of browns, yellows and even reds on their leaves. They all bend their branches low and try to attract my attention by swinging their boughs back and forth, eager to get my approval. But I run on. I do not wish to destroy anymore than I already have. It does not matter, though, because the wind I create with my swift movement snaps their leaves off easily, blows them high up in the gray sky and then allows them to sink back to the ground. I hardly notice while I run past, tears blurring my vision and my wet locks hitting my face. The rain bashes down mercilessly.

The corn fields are already bare. The crops safely in the barn. I am late. I have lingered too long between my beloved poplars. I cannot afford to rest anymore among the old oaks or the apple trees and run past them without acknowledging their efforts. I call out once more. Loudly this time, so I am sure he will hear me. At the sound of my voice, the clouds drift towards each other and thunder sounds in the air. A storm is coming. I should try to calm down, to avoid any more calamity, but I can't help myself. I call his name again. I need to be sure he will be waiting.

It is getting dark. The disc has given up for now, but even without the light I will not get lost. My feet follow a path invisible to others but clear like a beacon to me for I have walked it more times than I can count. And it always leads me towards him. Towards him and towards my tree. The weeping willow.

~~~

There it stands atop the hill. It stretches its long toes underground towards the small lake from which it takes its necessary nutrition, its branches above just barely tipping the surface of the water. When I am halfway up the slope I turn and look one last time at the result of my passing. The ground below has been given its first blanket now, brown leaves caking together in the mud. At least the soil will be content and well fed. I bow my head sadly for all the damage I have done. I know it must be so. I just wish I could give instead of take for once, but that is not my task. This is getting harder and harder to accept each time. I am growing old.

I turn back towards the hill and resume climbing. I can already see a figure sitting against the trunk of my tree and I smile. He is on time.

This one does not burn, like the other one. This I know. I remember. He is bliss. He takes the pain away.

He turns towards me. Although I have seen him as many times as I have walked my path I am still amazed at his beauty. He is radiantly white, his eyes clear blue crystals. He stretches out his arms and I come closer.

He tells me I am early, that they will not be pleased, but I reply that I do not care. It has to end. I can take no more this time.

His hand reaches out and caresses my face in understanding, leaving a stroke of ice on my cheeks. I shiver in his presence. He is so cold. He pulls me closer in his embrace and I feel my arms freeze. Despite the stinging cold pain I raise my head and smile. He smiles back, his white lips full of promise.

I trade the kiss of awakening for the kiss of death. My lips don't burn this time, they turn blue from the cold and start cracking. The coldness that is blown into me makes everything inside freeze. Slowly I loose consciousness. And then the final crack. I break to pieces.

Where he is, I cannot be.

~~~

Until next time.