Live in Light, Surf Master
The Mountain is the place of all great partings for House Xextos, it seems. I see my daughter’s mind arrayed in the peak edging on Sabarene’s more temperate polar regions, once more little Chiara is on the edge of a frozen span and the heat at her back.
Guess it’s why after leaving her to her solitude long enough, a father knows when to show up. Or at least we tell ourselves when the time is right, tasting the air like some reptilian to detect a moment that won’t have us chucking chocolate bars and heading back down the hills to the valleys.
Daughters.
There’s something so fragile and resilient about daughters. They’ll go through more pain than us fathers will ever know, we’re so removed from their mysteries half the time we gloss over them. Stay stoic to hide the ignorance and fear of saying the wrong thing.
Couldn’t say a dang thing to my own wife long enough, but for perseverance and a hellacious patience.
How can I reach up and brush across my own daughter’s mind as she suffers her own pain, when it took centuries for me to face my own? Another thing about daughters I’ve come to love and begrudgingly accept:
They’ll always out-pace their fathers in most important things.
As I climb the mountainside to the hermitage [member="Chiara Viren"] created, my fingers sting with the cold I remember from Yavin’s moon. A miniature child falling in the snow.
My beautiful Chiara, not some collection of memories, but my own girl given another chance. Felt for too long that Chiara and Erryn were Ahani’s puppets. Figments of her addled imagination put together in marionette bodies to please some sense of balanced scales.
But they’re not. They’re my Chiara. My Erryn.
I might be a Jedi of the Old Way, but ridding myself of attachments can feth off. Left Chiara in her funk long enough. Daddy’s coming, and he brought cocoa.
Guess it’s why after leaving her to her solitude long enough, a father knows when to show up. Or at least we tell ourselves when the time is right, tasting the air like some reptilian to detect a moment that won’t have us chucking chocolate bars and heading back down the hills to the valleys.
Daughters.
There’s something so fragile and resilient about daughters. They’ll go through more pain than us fathers will ever know, we’re so removed from their mysteries half the time we gloss over them. Stay stoic to hide the ignorance and fear of saying the wrong thing.
Couldn’t say a dang thing to my own wife long enough, but for perseverance and a hellacious patience.
How can I reach up and brush across my own daughter’s mind as she suffers her own pain, when it took centuries for me to face my own? Another thing about daughters I’ve come to love and begrudgingly accept:
They’ll always out-pace their fathers in most important things.
As I climb the mountainside to the hermitage [member="Chiara Viren"] created, my fingers sting with the cold I remember from Yavin’s moon. A miniature child falling in the snow.
My beautiful Chiara, not some collection of memories, but my own girl given another chance. Felt for too long that Chiara and Erryn were Ahani’s puppets. Figments of her addled imagination put together in marionette bodies to please some sense of balanced scales.
But they’re not. They’re my Chiara. My Erryn.
I might be a Jedi of the Old Way, but ridding myself of attachments can feth off. Left Chiara in her funk long enough. Daddy’s coming, and he brought cocoa.