Through Every Goodbye We Remain

By AdmiralTAG

The first time I saw the tapestry of my life was in a smoky habak on Dorvan V. I thought it was beautiful—a bright sapphire on a background of sedate gray, the flashing of a brilliant green showing out here and there. It was only later, when I learned to understand the tapestry of my Human life, that I knew what a lie my perception had been.

I went back to that habak once to understand. My mentor, the man you know as the Traveller, warned me not to. Warned me I was too young to understand. Warned me that I understood too little to understand it all. Warned me that once I looked at it again nothing could ever be the same.

He should have trusted me. You all should have. I sat for what seemed only a minute looking at the tapestry with my new-found sight. From the progress of the sun outside, it must have been hours before I realized that those colors, the brilliant blue, the dignified charcoal—neither of these were me. The flash of color at the beginning—there—not quite blue, not quite green, not even gray—that was not me, either. They were you, all of you, and in your selfishness you almost took my life away. The tangles you made could have choked me, almost did, and you never noticed.

And then, when I knew where you fit in the tapestry of my life, I could trace it all so easily, all the complications, all the tangles, all the pain and misunderstanding. I did not touch them at all, oh, no, of course not—even then I knew not to untangle the tapestry you had made of me—but I could see you all so clearly, see you as I never had before. I had thought once that I understood you, all the love and the hate which lay between you and which formed me, but then I finally understood that I hadn’t known you at all. No better than you had known me.

I looked deeper into the tapestry, melding with the fibers, becoming part of my own past. I saw you, all three of you, fumbling and stumbling on the differences between love and lust and obligation. Dad--I knew how much you loved Mom and how disappointed you were that she never became the woman you thought she was. I felt your heart break, but we both know your heart was never hers in the first place, that Mom, I, were things you wanted. Space was what you needed to live. I watched your final minutes aboard the Stargazer, the divorce papers, the final forgiving message to the captain. I know why you did it, because ultimately it didn’t matter. Mom and the captain betrayed you, yes, but you forgot that in your rush to the arms of a lover who would hold you once and never betray you again.

Captain. That steady dull gray of my life. You betrayed your best friend. Both of them, actually. How could I never have seen, all those years I tried to force you into the role of father, playing to your guilt, on your attraction to Mom? How could I, who can see twelve steps ahead in a chess game, who can understand the inner workings of complex engines, have missed so the essential you? You had betrayed your principles, betrayed your friends, and would never do that again. And so you grew rigid, afraid, terrified by your humanity. Around you we all bloomed; you helped us become all that was hidden within us, nourished by the rotting remains of your self. And didn’t you ever wonder what that did to my mother, sir? And had you lost so much of your humanity that you no longer cared?

Mom. I can almost see you there, in front of the fire, with him. I ought to be upset, hurt, but all I can find in myself is pity, for myself and for you. Did you ever get what you needed, Mom? For all the false front you presented, for all the stories of my glorious father-hero, the invincible, irreplaceable man, I know he didn’t give you what you needed. I didn’t need this tapestry to tell me that—your face, every time you spoke of him, told a story far different from your voice. I, who only remembered the hero, could never picture Dad’s face clearly in my mind. You, who betrayed him, could never get his face out of your mind. You never really told me who Dad was, and so I never really learned who you are. And so you made a lie of both our lives, as you and Dad made a lie of your marriage.

The captain never gave you what you needed either, did he? Withered, dried, terrified—not just him; you, too. So scared by your one chance for happiness, your one memory of perfection, that you circled each other, just out of reach, certain that if you touched each other, just one more time, you’d spontaneously combust.

I stared at the sacred fire burning in the habak, trying to send you thoughts I’d never dare say out loud. That fire burns, but it also cleanses. That fire destroys, but it also warms.

Without that fire, you are cold, sterile, loveless. The universe is too wide and wonderful, loaded with marvels and warmth and radiance. Dad left you, both of you, because your chill could not keep him. I left you, both of you, because I needed more fertile ground in which to grow.

We neither of us truly said goodbye. But in every fire in which you burn, in every love you allow yourselves, you’ll find us once again. Coldness is the only betrayal.

 If ya read this, you have got to e-mail AdmiralTAG...she's a master ain't she?

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