The city is suffocating me. The smoke, the cold, the hatred--there is nothing good about London in 1870. Nothing good except for one little pond on the outskirts, in a park where nature survives and lovers meet, including me and my dearest. I wait for her, shivering, on the edge of the water, praying for her, laying flower petals on the tender surface as gently as my cumbersome body can, awaiting her fingers, looking for the gentle way she clutches them.
It took seconds before she awoke, just as eager to see me as I am to see her for some unbelievable reason. She says nothing for a moment, only breaches the surface, her head of perfect curls pulled by the weight of the water, her eyes of the fresh honey they sell in the square.
Every day, I am underdressed, never keeping up with the fashions, not having the money to even if I desired to. But, when I am with my lover, I am suddenly donning too much. Despite the frost, she is cloaked in nothing except one thin white sheet, transparent from the rippling water she rises from, with intricate green details around the edges like I’ve never seen before. Her feet bare, wearing no jewelry, not a hint of wealth to her, she strolls out of the pond like royalty. I know she is.
The first day I saw her, I asked who she was. She showed herself to me wearing an intricate crown placed above her brow and a cloth of green so bright it looked as if it were made of the fresh, springtime leaves from the tree she rose from. She seemed sorrowful to answer, but she did so with no hesitation—
“I am the mother. I have been your beloved for every one of your lifetimes, although you don’t remember. My name is Gaia.”
I rolled the name on my tongue for a week, remembering her beauty and her grace. I went back to the lake after seven days and asked her to be my beloved again. She said she would, but I have to learn to love her fully before I can join her. Every week I came back, told her I loved her even more—that it was time for me to be her eternal bride. She’d laugh, her burning hands caressing my cheek.
“You’ve learned to love me so much since I met you, but you still have a good distance to go,” she told me one evening, while leaves were falling off the trees. She had tears in her eyes when she told me our story, about how we’ve been together for thousands of years. I used to hate her, as I hated her creation. There was nothing I gained joy from, nothing I cared about. Then one day I saw a flower, then a pond, then a snowflake, then the stars. Children’s laughter, the joy a person can experience, the gentleness of all life forms. Lifetime after lifetime, I learned more and more about how to love my world, my Gaia. She says I am so close to understanding. My passion for people, for nature, for love--she says these things mean that I love her. But I’m missing a piece. I kick myself over it every night, searching and yearning. She frowns whenever I tell her this.
Tonight, I assure her when she reaches the shore that I will not pester her about it and she smiles, probably relieved although she’d never say so. Her hands are warm despite being wet, gentle as they hold onto me. I put my heart at her feet, trusting her to not hurt me, and she never has. When she speaks, everything stands still to listen, but my heart pounds.
All she has to say is that she loves me, but I find myself sobbing before she even finishes.
I know she loves everybody, but the fact that I am spectacular to her always astounds me. My love is almost two meters tall, towering over me, with dark skin. Sometimes her hair is long, sometimes it’s short, but it’s so long today that when I gently pull on a strand, the curl releases a hair that stretches down to her waist. My skin is only a little bit lighter, but we look nothing alike. She tells me we are both beautiful, but I’m hesitant to believe her. How can two people so different be equally pretty?
My Gaia summons two separate snowflakes in her hand and explains that they are both wonderful even though they are vastly different, but I argue that they do still look very similar. She laughs at me, then smiles sadly. She says I’ll understand in time. I don’t believe her, so I roll my eyes and ask her to tell me about her life. She talks about how she used to be a goddess; she’d officiate weddings, sit in temples, answer prayers, help raise children, and devote herself to her creations.
Over time, empires fell and things changed. Other gods arose. She was still the mother of it all, but now there were a few more gods with the same title. She says I was the only person who prayed to her these days. She didn’t do it for the glory, it didn’t hurt her, but I know it would hurt me if I were in her shoes. I’m glad that even if she doesn’t have thousands of people devoted to her, she has me. What her church lacks in number, it makes up for in passion, I believe.
When she finishes her stories, I run my right hand through her hair and then place it on her heart. I feel it skip a beat. I whisper in her ear something about how I want to worship her and red rises high on her cheeks. She loves me; I know because the more I kiss her, the more out of breath and flustered she becomes. I can’t believe I’m someone that could make a goddess flush. Her hand tangles in my hair and I know that I could stay here forever without complaint. Her lips, so soft and tender; I can feel the love she has for me through them.
She holds me close until the sun starts to set, then she helps me into my carriage.
“Priya,” she whispers my name into my hair when she embraces me goodbye, “you are more capable of love than you even know.” With that, she dissolves back into the earth from whence she came, leaving me to ponder her closing statement the entire ride home.
That night, as I brush out my hair, I look in the mirror, contemplating. My hair is soft, my lips are plush. I kind of know that I am beautiful, I can see it in my darling’s eyes—the more I look at myself, the more I see what she sees. My brown eyes shine, my smile is bright. I have beautiful energy. I love with my whole heart. According to Gaia, I’m even more able to love than I know. I sit and ponder that again. The only person I have ever not been loving towards is myself, I think. But why would that matter? I love every other person so deeply.
I dream that night of her. Her hand in mine, being in her arms, being the one to hold her at night. I wake up longing for her, mourning the knowledge that I won’t get to see her for another long while, as my father only lets me leave once a week. I open my doors and start working immediately, washing and hanging clothes, sending my younger brothers to deliver my finished laundry to my customers. Work is mind-numbing and slow as usual, but I am satisfied with my work as I go along. A few people can’t make their payments, but I let it slide when my father isn’t looking. When the day is done, I settle with my knees on the ground and my head resting on the side of my bed, and I tell her that I love her. I’m sure she knows, but I like to remind her. I ask for her to explain what she means by what she said before--who am I not being loving to?--then I crawl into bed and wait for an answer.
She shows up shortly, coming up behind me in an unrelated dream, guiding me over to a bench she has made out of vines. I find myself unable to talk to her, but she doesn’t seem surprised. She’s a goddess, but she doesn’t make the rules anymore. There are other gods who control dreams now, she can only do so much.
“I’m sorry I confused you with what I said. I don’t want to hand feed you the things you need to figure out for yourself, and it’s hard to balance that with not wanting to keep anything from you.” She looks genuinely upset, so I hold onto her hand to let her know it’s okay. “What I’m trying to tell you is that...well, think about the kindness you show others and why, that’s all.”
I wake up even more confused than before. I show others kindness because everyone has good in them and everyone is important and deserves love. My dearest taught me that lifetimes ago. I love everyone because my goddess made them with her careful hands.
In front of the mirror, I frown at myself, angry at why I have to be so stupid, when I finally get it. I would never think of someone else like that, not even the worst person on the planet. I know all people all serve a purpose and were all made by her. I imagine her frown every time I complain about myself and I’m certain that’s what it is. I just need to learn to love myself like I love others! How hard could it be?
Over and over again during my work, I see myself in the reflection of the soapy water and smile, as I was made by my god and I know that I’m perfect. I am kind to a stranger and remember that I deserve the same kindness. When my thoughts are cruel to myself, I gently correct them. I dream of her every night--she is so proud, so happy. I know I am doing the right thing. The days pass and, with my hard work making life more loving, they come quicker and kinder. Finally, the time comes where I can see her again.
I bathe in lavender and dress myself in heavy wintertime clothes, simple as always, but cleaner than normal. I put my hair up in braids and curls to form a crown, making sure it’s easy for my love to take down, as she always does. I start to put powder on my face, but frown as it makes me too pale, and wash it off. The world says I must wear powder, but I don’t see the point in altering the beauty that my love bestowed me. I kiss my brothers goodbye and head to the park, coat clenched in my arms.
The tread to the pond is almost painful, I’m so giddy. I barely resist running the whole path, the only thing stopping me being the bag of flowers from my mother’s overgrown garden weighing me down. When I reach the edge, I settle down with the sack, scattering petals across the water’s surface. I wait to pray until the scene is perfect and I am dramatically perched with my hands grazing the pond ever so slightly. Of course, after all my hard work, she comes up from a patch of snow to the right of me instead of her usual path. I can feel her presence and her warmth before she touches me, but her hand on my shoulder sends tingles down my spine anyway.
She looks as beautiful as ever, her black ringlets in a mane around her, a crown on top of her head just like the first time I ever saw her. She was glowing, radiating joy. I hardly got to admire her before she lifts me, sweeps me up in her arms, and spins me around until I nearly faint from giggling. When she sets me back down, she doesn’t let go, burying me in her arms. I can feel her tears landing on the top of my head.
“You love me…” Her voice is choked, softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“I always have,” I jest, giving her a hard time. She pulls back, cupping my face between her gentle hands. Her joy melts any urge I have to poke fun and I melt into her. Ecstatic, she twirls me around to a tune she hums, dancing with me so gracefully while I struggle to do the most basic steps, then leads me to sit with her. We talk for hours. She’s maniacally happy, praising me with every word. She says she’s proud of me, she loves me, she knew I could do it.
I make sure she knows that my journey is far from over, that learning to love myself fully is going to take a long time. She asks if she can be an active part of my exploration for now on. I tell her I’ll allow it, but only if I get a kiss every single day. With a laugh, I’m promised as many kisses as I want, forever. I accept her offer.
When the night starts to fall, I do not make a move to leave. In fact, we stay still all throughout the night, kissing and loving, her keeping me warm. I fall asleep in Gaia’s arms, safe with my dearest.
Dawn breaks and she’s standing in the water, asking if I am ready to be her queen, extending her hand. I take it. Together, we walk into the deep, in equal love of ourselves and each other, our hearts glowing. She promises me that she will worship me until her creation ends and I tell her I’ll treasure her even longer. The crisp water closes above us and I am able to breathe for the first time.
Esme Fenn (they/them) is a first-year double major in creative writing and journalism & professional writing. They are based in Ohio, although they have lived in a wide range of states. Their passions include cats, embroidery, Mamma Mia, and frogs. This is their first time publishing, but it won’t be the last! For any updates, follow them on twitter @esmefenn.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/esmefenn