There’s a moment in everyone’s story where they think: what the fuck am I doing? This is hurting me. Maybe even, this is fucking killing me. For me, this happened a few times. And each time, instead of stepping away from the flames, I crept a little closer. I wanted to see how near I could get without getting burnt; even when the hair on my arms started to smoke, when the smell of burning flesh hit my nostrils, I could not seem to resist inching forward. I don’t remember an exact moment where I realized, oh, this is bad; if it was suddenly, or all at once.
I just knew that I could not – would not – leave him.
I brushed my hands across your brow,
saw blood on my fingers.
I wondered if I was the one with the knife,
or if you had razors hidden in apple petal curls.”
–Embers and Craters, written in 2022
I felt so alone in this small town in the mountains. I thought it would be good to start fresh with my mother in a new place. We didn’t want to see daddy in every facet of either place we’d lived, laughed and loved in.
That house? John fixed their porch and painted it that nice blue color. That yard? John laid the brickwork and did the fence. That playground? John pushed you so high you almost fell off the swingset but you were shrieking, so happy to touch the sky, knowing your daddy would always keep you safe.
But what now? He didn’t keep us safe from losing him. He didn’t save us from that. And now I was free falling, without anything to anchor me: no husband, no hometown, no daddy.
Was it any wonder I went looking for Hades?
Elisabeth Writing 