Father Time
The rippling noise of snapping twigs muffled beneath Marisol’s feet as she wandered within the depths of the day-lit forest of well-aged trees. Much time has passed since she stepped into this very environment-- three years to state the accurate amount-- though her memory of all of it was not the least bit hazy or blurred. She traced the tattered bark on a nearby tree with her finger, leading pieces to fall from its body down to the dry soil of the earth. Everything that stood there had remained unchanged. The ground stayed the same shade of brown, along with the wood of the grand, skinny trees, and the color of their very leaves continued to burn the same hue of emerald green, this being Marisol’s favorite sight once returning back to the familiar area. The only thing left absent from the picture she would need to complete and match identically with the one imbedded in her memory would be Her.
Pacing furthermore into the woods, Marisol picked up on the scent of moisture trailing through the air. Eagerly wanting to reach the body of water that sent off the smell, she quickened her step and swiftly maneuvered herself through the natural obstacles while her waves of raven locks ribboned behind her feminine stature. Nearly stumbling on a jagged stone, Marisol grabbed her balance and proceeded to travel north.
Breathing heavily and skin dewing with perspiration, she witnessed it before her. The stream sitting there as it always had been. The water, clear and crystalline, ran down, hurdling over the waterbed, earth, and stones in its path. Beautiful it looked in Marisol’s vision. Beautiful as always.
Finding the large boulder she knew to be present, Marisol sat down, her face directed towards the aquatics; her back in the direction of the forest she had recently marched through. If being three years earlier, She would be sitting right next to her. She would be talking to Marisol about how She wanted to wade in the water as Marisol objected, shaking her head and waving her hands in protest. “Puella.” Marisol whispered the girls name, with the slimmest hope that somewhere, somehow, the girl would hear it; feel it. The image of the sixteen year old girl sat in Marisol’s conscious. The girl’s wide smile appearing after splashes of stream water would hit Marisol due to the motioning of Puella’s own hands. Marisol even felt the nostalgic wetness hitting her face during her mental vacation into her memory.
Her heart fell into a pit at the bottom of her stomach. Remembering all of this pulled back the yearning she felt to see the girl before her eyes, to touch the girl’s hands and to graze the sides of her arms with her fingertips, and to inhale the aroma of the girl’s flowery scent while holder her in an embrace once more-- preferably plenty times more.
Minutes, hours, days, and years have passed since Marisol was close to the other girl. Time flew by, and Time shifts everything. This she knew very well to be true, for it had been her enemy for three years and counting. The father of what we call Time has kept the two women apart, nothing else. Today, they would stand, hands clamped into each others’ and smiles heavily visible, if time had not interfered, thrusting them in separate directions. There is no use of battling with it, for Time will persistently be the victor. Time shifts, molds, and changes everything, for she knew this be true.
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