Her Love Belongs on Earth

An imaginative composed by Malia (Year 10, St Joseph’s Catholic College)

Malia is a student in The Writer's Collective Course (A 100 hour elective creative writing course available via the Cross Campus Centre CSBB)

People often believe that being alone is the worst thing someone can experience. I used to be
one of those people. Now, as I stand before her statue, I’m learning it’s not. Being in a crowd full of people yet feeling completely alone. Tonight, in the memorial glade, I know this truth in my bones. That’s the worst. You disregard the skin against yours; it’s only empty air to you. That’s grief. That’s loss. That’s love—so powerful you can’t possibly grab onto anything tangible.
This is the ache of absence. The hollow echo in a crowd. The weight of memory pressing on your chest.
Ash burns my nose, and soft candlelight flickers beyond my eyelids. I’m stuck in the crowd,
muscles too heavy and aching to move as if made of stone. Murmurs hum like a distant storm, punctuated by odd sniffles. The wet crunch of grass underfoot mixes with the shuffle of feet as bodies sidle past me; fingertips and whispers brush against me in apology. The night air is cool, but a strange, uncomfortable warmth lingers. ‘Wife’ and ‘dead’ hit me straight in the ears, and I come to life, a harsh cough escaping my mouth. My eyes adjust to the soft darkness and focus on a face below me. A little girl no taller than my hips gazes curiously up at me, her dark hood casting her face in shadow and a stubby candle between her dirt-crusted fingers. Deep green curls emerge from the hood as she shakes her head loose.

“Ma’am?”

I raise my gaze once more and step out from in front of her.

“Ma’am, Ione, wait! Did you know the Mother of Sacrifice?”

I feel the shell of my heart being pierced and pulled back into the darkness as I nod absently and turn around. A living ache that fills my being.
I face the back of the memorial glade where the statue of the Mother of Sacrifice stands. A
crowd of a couple of dozen people surround the base of the statue, standing or kneeling, arms
laden with offerings, children with lit candles. The Mother of Sacrifice stands tall and proud, one arm outstretched to the sky, the other touching just below her left shoulder. Her hair is
windswept, and dried tears cover her lips. A sword lies at her feet, next to a basket of
overflowing flower petals. A gold ring glints on one of her outstretched fingers. The ring was the only part of her that was found, along with a lock of ebony hair. It was found on the very dirt that the statue now stands on, a tall figure amongst a world of rubble and ruin.

“Tonight, we gather here in the memorial glade to commemorate our war hero. The Mother of Sacrifice, who gave her life in return for the retreat of all enemy troops. Without her brave
sacrifice, we would not be standing here as a free people with so many lives remaining. We will focus our rebuilding efforts around her statue so as not to forget who gave us this second chance.”

People across the glade clasp their hands together. They turn their faces to the sky. The bellow of the village elder booms into the night, echoing over the crowd.

“Let us all pray to the gods tonight. The Mother of Sacrifice reaches her home on the moon and reunites with her late love. Gods, hear us cry!”

Cries sound out from the people, and arms reach out above heads, clawing at the darkness.
Trying to reclaim the old world. The close-knit town of the grass, houses of the evergreens,
people of the animals, and love of the world. All that now lies in ruin around us. Grass ripped
from the soil, trees burnt down to the reaching branches, animals deceased, and love for the
world falling apart and tainted. The only untouched land surrounds the statue. The place where the Mother of Sacrifice looked to the heavens and begged for the mercy of all she held in her heart. She was ripped from the Earth and plunged into the darkness.

“She lives in spirit with us now, along with all your loved ones lost to tragedy. Call to them now and speak with them before they retire to the stars.”

The elder falls silent, and a thick quietness falls upon the glade. Multicoloured orbs of light fall from the sky and land at the feet of people, blinking in the warm candlelight. A large orange one lands in front of me. I kneel on the damp ground and pick up the orb, cradling it in my arms gently. I close my eyes and pray to the gods. A hush falls around me. The crowd parts.
Gasps sound from around me, and a shrill voice exclaims into the air. I tilt my head to the sky
and block out the sounds of the people.
A calloused and war-hardened hand delicately grasps my elbow and lays its fingers over the
expansive scab covering the underside of my right arm. An odd tingling sensation makes its way from my arm to the very ends of my body. I let my eyelids flutter open and meet the gaze of the eyes in front of me. The eyes are so bright and familiar. Thirteen flecks of green and twelve orange in each. Ebony hair waves in a nonexistent wind, and glassy tears coat lips. The cloaked figures watch us on the grass, candles illuminating shocked faces.
She is there – the Mother of Sacrifice sitting before me on the grass, a silvery rusty sword and a basket of purple flower petals surrounding us on either side. A gasp elicits from me as I scramble back, fists beating my chest. She bares the underside of her wrists to me as a show of vulnerability.

“You’re doing well, you know. You’re not too broken.”

Silence.

“Where did you go?” I whisper in return. “I-I’ve been waiting for you.”

She cocks her head towards the sky, and a phantom of a smile crosses her features.

“I’m gone, Ione. I’m sorry. It’s just you.”

“You know they call you a hero?” She raises her eyebrows and glances around at the onlookers.

“I don’t think you are, though,” I respond. “A hero shows up for the people they love.”

“A hero saves the people they love, Ione. That’s why I chose to go.” She leans forward and picks up one of my hands. I wring my hand free and stand up.

“Go return to your dead husband... Stop playing with me.”

“Nobody wants to go. But I wasn’t letting you get hurt. The day you get hurt, I die again. And I
don’t love that man, you know that. My love stays on Earth with the true one that captured my heart.”

“It hurts so much though,” I cry, grabbing at my heart, trying to yank the pain free.

“Give that pain to me. I’ll travel with it to the moon and let it dry up in the atmosphere. Plug
that hole with my heart, and when we reunite, I’ll take all that grief and empty it. I’ll give you my heart like I’ve done every day of my life. Cherish it and keep it close. Put it on my chair at
breakfast, in my bed at night, in your arms any other time. Look up at the moon, and you’ll see me preparing our house for the next life. You’ll see me in the magic of this world, in the
rebuilding of this town. I’ll always be your moon. Even when you can’t find me, I’ll be there
guiding you.”

I stare into those bright eyes and feel content for the first time in an eternity.
I close my eyes and reach for her hands, entwining our fingers together. I tilt my head to the sky once more and feel her fingers slip from mine. An orange orb lies between my hands – her love, her promise, her absence, green flecks of light dancing across the surface as if alive. Orbs start to rise from the crowd and ascend back to the heavens. Crimson red, saffron yellow, emerald green. Every colour imaginable floats in the expanse between these two worlds, waving back to the people. I feel my grief softening, my chest loosening, finally beginning to let go.

The orange orb starts to leave my hands. It brushes my lips and keeps rising, blinking softly in the combined light of the candles and moon. It meets the other orbs in the sky and flashes. Not a goodbye, but rather a see you later. The orbs spread out amongst the heavens and return to their homes. Soft whimpers sound from the people in the glade, and strangers encircle their arms around each other's shoulders.
The Mother of Sacrifice died, but she still exists up there. She’s an otherworldly being now, waiting for her wife to join her.

The Mother of Sacrifice had a name. It is now etched in my heart, and in the glow of the moon, she is waiting for me.

My love and my ruin.
My joy and my heartbreak.
My peace and war.
My world.

As I stand in the glade tonight, I realise being alone is not the worst thing. The worst is loving
someone so deeply that the absence of their loss consumes you. And I’m not alone anymore.
I’m surrounded by her ghost and her memory, by her love that lingers, by her presence that will never truly leave.