We were standing on the edge of the horizon, funny, but from up here, we looked over the horizon and down. It didn’t need to be that way, we could choose a different perspective, but some of our Earth habits remained. Looking down, we noticed a growing shimmering, a cloud rising and expanding, trying to obscure the view, luckily, we have never needed our eyes to see. That’s not to say we did not use them anyway.
Beneath the cloud, there was a pulsating orb of darkness. Not evil, sadness. The sadness was creeping in all directions, filling the space around it, and beneath and within was a family.
A mother wrung her hands as she looked out the window, practicing her smile. It’s not that she didn’t know how to smile, it had just been a very long time since she could do so without having to perform. We knew this woman, she had been flagged as a child as one that could keep the light. We watched her, it was all we were allowed to do, her forgotten contract was to march through the darkness. We loved her so very much when she looked at the moon and smiled and thanked her, calling her Mamma Moon, when she sang beneath the stars, off key, but singing nevertheless, the same songs over and over again. She would play in the forest, inventing games, not recalling that the games were real. She was lovely to behold, she gave forth a pure light, energy, that could not be dimmed.
The years went on.
You see, part of her contract was to remain true to her heart, despite what might be delivered along the way. We watched her light, it would dim at times, but never dip so low that we were afraid. We needed her light, she was a pinpoint across a map finely drawn long ago.
She was tempted, sorely over the years, to turn her back on those that had closed the doors only to knock again, asking for help. She had bleak moments, we always knew but it became more poingant depending upon what song she sang. When she asked in her songs to be heard, when she sang of the promise, we always knew she was still on track.
One day, the songs ended.
Some of us recalled, from prior lives, that everyone can change. They can paint and stop painting. They can write and stop writing. The only thing they can’t do is love and stop loving because love is never ending. They can only be mistaken with the word.
Christmas neared, the woman’s favorite time of year. She was not very hung up on either the history of Christmas or the present day madness, she loved the love, she loved the very joy of people wanting to do something for one another. Then, it seemed, her threads broke, the ones she had knotted and repaired and reinforced, snapped. She was on the edge of losing her love of Christmas.
We spoke among ourselves, we knew the rules. We could not show her or give her a glimpse of what is. It was horribly frustrating because even a mere glimpse would restore her light upon remembrance. We volleyed back and forth, giving reasons for and against, but we knew, God asked us, please, don’t go against this promise, the promise I gave her, that only she could summon forth the time to remember. If we interfere now, she will not know, if she could have remembered through love.