HIRAETH

SHARLENE ALLSOPP

There is an ethereal veil of fog between the two of us. An elusive, shifting character; constant, yet changeable. Sometimes thick and impenetrable, making me almost forget that he is there. Other times so thin, so flimsy, it is no barrier at all. Today it is barely a shimmer, and I see him. He is so beautiful. Life exudes from him like sound waves. Follows him like a trailing stave, curling out behind and before, drawing me in. He is like the application of universal law—like gravity—demanding an unconscious response. 

From my elevated position, reclining on the rocky beach, I imagine heads turning as he approaches, and follow him as he glides past. The real reason Clark Kent glasses would never work in real life: you can’t disguise presence with flimsy lenses. He is running. Powerfully. Lightly. He is perfect to look at. Hypnotising. Rhythmic and graceful. He appears to effortlessly take in the smooth, dark horizon and navigate the rocky headland simultaneously. I think I see his lips moving. I wonder if he sings as he runs. My fingers sneak up to my own mouth and hover there.

 Though my heart pursues him, the ruins rise before my eyes without permission.  The ancient, ever-present skeleton emerges from green, lush grass. The desolate embraced by the fertile and preserved by salty breath. The sunlight is as moody as a child. Today it peeks through the ruins and casts gentle shadows. It smiles softly and delights in its reflection on the shimmering blue canvas. Proudly, it silhouettes his form as he runs up the narrow track along the edge of the ruined abbey. Pausing at the pinnacle, he draws his T-shirt over his head and casually tucks it into his running shorts.  Shoulders that look like they could hold up the sky if it was falling. 

I pull my coat closer and look down at my hands. Lined, spidery, they still remember his smooth, soft skin. The fog is moved by this act of tangible remembrance and begins to descend and shroud. I lift my sunglasses and stand, searching, but the light is slipping. The sun escapes behind the cliffs. The fog thickens and he is hidden from us all. Night sweeps in. No fanfare. Just gone.

Another today. I am re-visiting the ruins with strangers. Sharing stories, we wander through the old chapel, its foundations barely holding. Piles of rubble slowly returning to dust. Today I foolishly imagine that I am mortar enough to restore these ruins. Some are finding it treacherous to navigate, but I can almost hear notes guiding me. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik; banging, clanging, rough music. The ocean chimes in, serenading out of time. 

 The sun behaves differently than yesterday. It is in the mood for haunting, intent on revelation. It reveals the harsh lines furrowed into the hillside where the ribs of dead walls lie spilled open. I keep my gaze down, but the thin fog begins to partner with the sun. It is a stinging mist, and my eyes fall victim to its insistence. I wasn’t looking for him today. Not today. 

Closing my eyes, I force myself to peer into memory’s rear-view mirror. I conjure images of the unbroken. The glory days of carpets and velvet. Of high ceilings and candle-chandeliers. I call forth stained glass and summon a pipe organ.  Tables laden with food and wine. Walls intact. Joyful, laughing eyes. There isn’t a person alive who wouldn’t want to be seen with those eyes. But the ruins shift back into focus. 

I feel him before I see him. That Presence. He is bent over, lacing up his runners. Always running. Flesh tightly wrapped around him like someone has stuck him with a straw and sucked the life out of him. His perfect, undulating arms ruined. Those hollow, unseeing eyes are faded, smoky jewels. Fragile, the edges of him sharp yet blurring, like he is shrinking slowly into the ether. I see him put the earbuds in and a snatch of Cohen seeps out.  

I hate the deceiving fog on today. Cloaking, uncloaking, believing, unbelieving. It is a voluminous silk curtain, billowing, tangling. I can’t rend it out of my way. No matter how I sweep and pull at it, it hems me in. There is no escape. I clench my eyes shut. The veil envelops me, the music recalls, but it cannot force me to watch. I hear him leaving. I hear the uneven, fading steps gaining speed, gaining distance. On my knees, my hands leave my sides, reaching out, but I will not co-operate with them. I will not let my memory live here. I spill it all out as I head to the water and I choose to let it swill and churn, rushing away with the tide. I will never be enough to hold him here.

The next today is a much-needed respite against hope’s lies. The veil is absent today. Or perhaps it is so completely present that I am unaware of it. I am alone, wandering on the headland, my back to the ruins. Tall, dark cliffs behind me, vast horizon before me. The air is clear. My imagination still. The sun is itself, shining only on now. No highlighting or shadowing, no revelation or hiding. Just light enough to tell the story: he is gone. There is no headland that I can round to discover him. There will be no restoration of his ruins. I am not in revolt. I allow the breaths to absorb salty, preserving air into my body. This flesh and blood ruin that remains, without him.

SHARLENE was born and raised on Bundjalung country and dreams of capturing that elusive perfect sentence—preferably liquored up in a Champagne field in France. She studies Writing and Literature at UQ and loves her role as an occasional tutor.