Making Peace

The light shone through the broderie Anglaise hem of the woman's dress and made a string of flower shaped shadows on her ankles, twinkling like stars as she walked slowly down the path to the sea. Her braided hair hung and swayed at her back, still golden, or hiding any silver strands amongst the ruddy blond. Watching as she walked behind, Runa thought for the hundreth time how beautiful her mother was still, how gracefully she moved. More than just surface beauty, too; her mother was one of the kindest, gentlest people she'd ever known. Apart from a few thorny years in early adolescence, Runa had always been very close to her mother, and wondered how her father could have looked anywhere but at his wife. She was too young yet to know how fickle hearts can be, and how desire may die when its object sits at the breakfast table daily, or how a man may be filled with jealousy when a child's needs are met ahead of his. She was also too young to understand how broken people break others, or the costs and sacrifices that keeping home tranquil could require. Life was quieter when he left, and no less rich for there being less money. Her pale mother shunned the sun during the day, but sunset on the beach was a ritual she kept every fair evening that she could. They dined at sundown year 'round because of this, and when Runa was little, she had found it magical how elastic time was in their home compared to the clock-driven hours of other people's lives. This evening, the air was soft, nearly windless, and the waves regular and low. They stayed until the colours faded to indigo above the sea, and turned for home as the first stars began to dance behind the dunes. The house lights beckoned, and they moved homeward in a deep and wordless peace. From this place, she went out into the greater world to school or work, but it drew her gladly back and knitted up any sorrows or perplexity. Whatever hard bargains or blood offerings had been made to keep its warmth and calm, it was worth it. The space held and soothed her like an extension of her mother's arms, which in many senses it was. She was only just beginning to suspect that peace was an everyday work, a sustained focus on what mattered most. It seeded in the heart, was tended carefully, and flowered with no less devotion than a garden needed.