Catching Quinn was like catching fireflies,
in the hush of the night,
middle of June.
As the darkness settled in that evening,
Mum was brighter than ever.
Flashes of her light with every surge.
Her own unique cadence,
of strength,
of power,
of might.
A window to what was within her.
Quietly, I sat in the corner of their den,
from here I could marvel at her light
and the way it danced
from her belly
to her back
and into the sacred place
deep down
only she knew about.
I watched her for a while here,
admiring, observing, tracing her rhythm.
For it was her family who had her,
held her,
trusted her.
Minutes into hours,
wave after wave.
She walked those familiar paths,
Hiking the trails
within her home,
that she'd walked countless times before.
Swiftly, she shifted,
and her body craved the water.
She understood and listened.
And it was there that she gathered and rallied
and picked up the pieces.
Finding what was left
to ignite.
And so, she built a fire,
fuelled by love,
support and conviction.
And Quinn was born
light first
into the water.
That one light that had guided them all this way,
became two.
And they flickered together in the dark,
illuminated by the sea around them,
endorsed by starlight in the windows.
Flashing patterns of recognition,
remembrance, understanding.
Communicating in
intangible
unexplainable
mystical
ways
Two fireflies on a warm summer night,
meeting for the first time,
having felt each other's light,
for what seemed like
an
eternity.
Comments