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under the juniper tree
“You want your books in black and white and your days filled with vibrant color,” said River, moving around the juniper tree. “Why do you want what’s difficult, or impossible? This is bad, Sarai, very bad.”
Sarai’s hand swept grass tips, sitting cross-legged and watching the storm brewing in the distance. “I wonder through my days, and wonder who will share my days,” she said. “I want nothing less than my heart’s cry. Can I ignore it and do violence to the core of my being, River?”
“Stay here and work with us. We needs more hands. We have a duty to our families, not to dreams or crazy longings,” said River.
Sarai had taken a slanted path from the womb. Her father worried nightly for her future, for her purity and stability. “If you love me let me go, Daddy,” she would sing as she twirled around the living room as a 7-year-old. “I’m a bird with a pretty mouth, I’m a bird with songs to shout.”
River understood in part, but blamed her on the whole. “I have longings, too, Sarai.”
Sarai cocked her head in interest.
River hugged the tree trunk with one hand. “I’ve always wanted to just go to a deserted island by myself for a month. Or a year. Get away from all of this, y’know?”
Sarai rose, grabbed River’s hand, and led him in a dance under dark clouds. He felt a sting in his chest, not unpleasant, hot. Sarai loosened the chains squeezing his heart, wrapped tight by his father, and his father’s father. He let no one in his soul without the key of compassion, which Sarai held in her soft hands. Skies thundered. Sarai sang. River wept.
