Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Even those dead flowers have more power than I do. They can become something else, someday. They can form into seeds and grow again without my help. Olympus can carry on in its power and grandeur without me, as it did long before I was born and as it will long after I die as a nymph.
“My daughter.”
My mother’s voice startles me, and I sit upright, a hand on my chest. She stands in the garden with her white silk robe falling gently around her feet and a wrap around her shoulders. She smiles down at me, her auburn hair a halo with slight wrinkles surrounding her eyes, like she is happy to see me out here in the garden in the middle of the night. I smile back at her but can only manage a small one.
“Come sit with me.” My mother offers me her hand, and I take it and rise from the ground. Her touch is airlike yet powerful. Instantly warmth and comfort surrounds me. The Goddess Demeter is known to comfort, to provide, and to give to those who have little to offer. She is gracious and generous to mortals and in this moment, to me. She guides me to a bench by a round pool of cool clear water. There is nothing reflected in the water now, only the night sky.
We sit side by side on the bench. “I will plait your hair,” my mother says, her voice warm. “As I once did.”
Her fingers slide through my hair, undoing the tangles gently, and now I feel closer to tears than I did before. My mother plaits my hair like no one else does. She is balanced like no one else is. She is essential to the way of life with Gods and mortals. All is balanced with life and death, old souls and new, those who believe and those who question, the good and the bad. All of it is needed, and when there is balance, there is peace amongst the gods and with the hands of fate.
Perhaps what is needed is for my powers to dim. Maybe I should surrender and trust in the universe. Tears prick and I remind myself: Breathe in. Breathe out.
Demeter, my mother, is a giving God. She gives easily to the mortals. As Goddess of the Harvest, she brings a wealth of fortune and provides for many without asking for anything in return. She nurtured me as her most precious gift along with my sister, Chrysothemis, who is also a goddess of the harvest. I have never lived a day without love. And as my mother says, it is the most powerful of all.
My mother begins to braid my hair and makes a soft sound of laughter. “I remember when you were only so tall.” She motions with her hand, and then returns her fingers to my hair. “You loved the flowers in your hair. You’d grow them only to scoop them up and beg your sister to share them with you; pleading with her to add them to her hair.”
“I remember.” My throat is tight with how vividly I remember my power. It came easily to me then, and I thought it would never leave. I thought life would always flow effortlessly from my fingers like my mother’s power. I thought it was my birthright.
There was no worry. Why should there have been? Nothing in my life had ever pointed to any kind of loss. Now the days are filled with naught but worry.
“I remember the way you laughed,” my mother says, and sighs, the sound happy. She braids my hair with a gentle touch, exactly the way she used to when I was a child. I close my eyes and imagine I am still a child, still with all my powers, still with eternity ahead of me. Inside, deep within my belly, I swear my power swells with the memory. It is only a moment, but it is felt and my chest warms with hope until the feeling is lost. My mother finishes braiding my hair and wraps it, her fingers working deftly. She makes no mention of the dead flowers, although they lay plainly ahead of us.
“Mother.” She pats at my hair, then rests her hand on my shoulder. I do not turn to face her, but I open my eyes. I search the pool with its reflection of the sky for a man-shaped shadow, but there is nothing there now.
“Yes, daughter?” she questions as if she does not know, but surely my mother is well aware of my demeanor.
My mother waits patiently, the same way she waits for her crops to mature. She does not rush them along. That is not their way, she tells me. For life knows ebbs and flows. But that is not all of the truth. Some Gods know only fruitfulness, in part due to my mother’s graciousness.