Sun asked: How long has it been? Wind replied: A full year? The girl of Spring remains, fumbling with her preparations, treading upon sand dunes, weaving through the crowds. Searching. Oh lover, where have you gone?
That day, the Sky peeked down where people gathered in strange numbers, perhaps longing to overhear the old tales of those who love. Returning. Sun asked: Why hide like that? Wind replied: Surely out of shyness. The girl of Winter’s end holds back, stooping and glancing about, stepping on blades of grass just beginning to turn lush green, while a few thorny bushes tangle around her feet. Groping. Oh lover, where are you now?
That day, the Sky looked askance where people arrived but refused to leave, perhaps reminiscing over old stories, a lingering love that refuses to depart. Slowly. Sun asked: Over there, that old fellow still fancies those innocent games. Wind replied: Old as he is, meeting again still stirs a restless ache of love and remembrance. Awkward. It has been so many years, not just a day or a year. The girl of a thousand Autumns clings on, her eyes blurred to the scenery before her, peering into the crowd to find the one who once spoke of a hundred years together.
That day, the Sky looked sideways where the lover walked with a few children in tow, splitting into many directions to find at all costs the one who once spoke of a hundred years. That love story now has five children, though a hundred years was never reached.
Wind replied: See, they’ve met! Waiting for the girl to utter the word “forgiveness” before that fellow stops hiding. Sun asked: Yes, imagine what she will say next? The girl of fire-red Summer stays, chirping as she tidies, her eyes wide and brimming, nearly overflowing with tears, gazing at the old face, telling the little ones the story of that lover—how she promised that exactly three days from the day he lay down, she would take another man. Just like that. Spoken to vent her anger; now years are counted by the decade, more than thirty perhaps, yet she remains alone with the yoke of five children. Returning today, she speaks her heart’s fill: let everything go, let forgiveness wash it all away.
That day, the Sky gazed at the girl whose hair was feathered with the color of incense smoke blending into drifting clouds, sitting by that grave waiting for the incense to fade, burning a few joss papers. Not many old stories were told, only a single phrase repeated with devotion. Forgiveness. Letting go of all resentment, whatever love remains; now, it is the joy of the soul.
Earth, Sky, Sun, and Wind. They looked at one another. Wanting to speak on behalf of the man who promised a hundred years, wanting to express an intimacy to the girl of Spring who stayed behind:
Oh lover, what do you dream?
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