L.

[2.] Moon, Who Even Now Whispers to Me

I climbed upon him, and he helped me up, lifting me beneath the arms and tucking me against his chest. Once secure, I sighed out, and felt sleepy, and he spoke to me. 

"How now, little blond?" he asked me softly. Large, sure hands held me. I felt my heart beating against my back, and I rested my head against his collarbones.

There in the orange half-light, I took his black hair in my hand and clutched it, eyes half-lidded. 

Can a boy know when he is home? Can he make it his own through force of will? I held onto him.

I must never give up this affection, I thought, and sighed more, and pushed my head against him. He smelled of wooden incense, of smoke.

I want to say this, because I think it's important even to hear it myself. It's this: that I do not regret a single moment of my boyhood, or a single choice. I don't. I don't. It's this: that if I had it all to do over again, the only regret I have is leaving him. Oh I regret it, and how I sometimes dream that I am small and in his strong arms, and sure of myself, with his words rumbling through me, and his chin tucked on top of my head. It was not that he adored me. It was not that.

It's that I loved him. And that he is the first man I ever loved. And that he made me feel like someone.  And all of that... what can we say about it? 

"How is it that you are so brave?" he asked me.

"This one is five years old," I heard. 

"What have you done with the others?" 

"I'll have done what you tell me to have done, frankly."

I took his face in my little hands because he was talking about the others. Don't talk about the others! Look at me instead. How startling! What I saw looking back at me. 

"Your name?" I asked, struggling to communicate with him.

A long, thin nose with a high bridge. Black hair worn long. Almond-shaped eyes of lustrous green, so clear that I could see myself. Pale red lips that were smiling at me as if I had done something quite naughty. Complexion completely without color. His skin was firm under my hands, smooth and without hair. I could not tell how old he was. I turned my hand over and touched his cheek with my knuckles, and felt his high cheekbone with the length of my pointer finger. I noticed all the things about him that were different than me. That in the humidity, his skin was cool.

"What's wrong, little blond?" he asked me.

"You look like a devil?" I asked. "Do you?"

"Oh be brave. We are only foreign."

"Why do you speak Latin?" I asked, because I hoped that he spoke my language, too. That is why I asked. 

"That will do, stewards," he said. "Have done with the rest, with my thanks. There is silver for the masters, and lamb for the children to refresh them for the journey back. We retire."

I wanted to tell him, more hysterical and gasping than I am ready to admit now, that I was willing to do whatever he wanted to stay. I didn't understand that it was over and that he had chosen me and that my life had changed. Let me stay. Let me stay. I didn't understand what he was telling the stewards. I thought, I don't want lamb. I want to stay.

"Will you come with me, Escha?" he asked me. 

I took that name and put it in my heart, and let it be myself. I still had his hair in my hand, unable to let him go.

He tried to let me down but I wouldn't. I made the small, huffing sounds of little, stressed dogs, struggling to stay up.

He called me Escha, which in Latin is some kind of strength. Many times though, he called me "Essha", which in his Sanskrit means "wanting".