When I met Ellis Byrd at age five, I thought he might be the most serious little boy that ever lived.
Later in life, I'd go on to learn that Ellis felt he had to be serious about everything, especially school, since he was starting a full year later than everyone else his age. I'd eventually learn how to make him laugh, though, and would experience the joy of seeing him be carefree.
Actually, I would go on to learn all sorts of things when it came to Ellis Byrd, and most of them would have something to do with love.
I'd learn how love could change; how it could grow from friendship into more, into something that felt infinite. Love could be loud and supernova hot, and something soothing and quiet, too.
Love could be miraculous and fulfilling. It could make you believe things would always work out for the best, because love really could conquer all.
Love could burrow into the loneliest places in your heart, but its absence would leave bigger, misshapen holes that are impossible to fill.
I'd learn how love could give you things you never dreamed of having, then trick you into wanting more.
"Shit." I spot the time on the microwave and toss my pen aside with a growl, then haul ass back to my room to finish getting ready. Guess that's as far as I'm going to get for the time being.
Beginning this little project right now was probably not my best idea, not when I'm already running behind for a date—regardless of how apathetic I feel about the date itself.
Alas, I woke up this lovely spring morning with an otherwise free day ahead of me, and naturally proceeded to start (emphasis on start) about twenty-nine things that were in no way dire or pressing until I continued my lollygagging and landed myself here, direly pressed for time. I succumbed to Waiting Syndrome. I had the day to dick around, and I overdicked it. Insert another colloquialism for poor time-management skills.
It all began with one of my earlier footles of the day: my trip to Athena's Bookshop. I was greeted by the smells of new books mixed in with secondhand, the sight of a big bouquet on the register counter—chamomile flowers mixed with tulips and tiny strawberries still on their vines. I smiled and let a finger tickle one of the blooms as I passed. My best-friend-slash-ex-sister-in-law, Sage, has been running a floral business on the side here in our small town of Spunes, Oregon (not to be confused with Forks, Washington), for the last few months, and that bouquet is just one of her many whimsical creations adorning our local stores.
I said my hellos to Athena and went on to meander among the shelves, where I quickly slipped into Bad Feelings over my dawdling and guilted myself into the self-help department. Ironically enough, I found that most of the books in that particular section were used—something I'd never noticed before, despite visiting this place multiple times a week and co-owning the bakery three doors down. A testament to how often I go anywhere near self-help, I guess.
But I got hung up on the "used" aspect of the books. Did this mean that these people got the help they needed? That's why they'd turned in the books, right? Because they'd been successful? They must all be Untamed Badass Highly Effective People who've Mastered the Power of Now, presumably after they Washed Their Face?! Was that it? Did they wash their fucking face??!
"What is it you're looking for, Wren?" Athena had asked when she found me sitting cross-legged on the ground a while later (seven open books and a general air of despondence around me). I looked up to answer, and my gaze caught on a poster behind her.
“Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.”—Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle
The words practically glowed—a marquee sign lit up in a darkened room.