Between the somethings

“Who told you only the soft could be good mothers? That mothers could not be dragons in disguise? That women who teach their daughters how to preserve themselves by breathing out lightning were any less than wild, magical things when teaching their young about war and love’s terrible lies?”

“Sighs sit soft like white sheets in winter. I wait, you wait. For a moment, I swear I can see the thoughts crawling out of your head, but it’s just a shift in the shadows. You wait, I wait. Your eyes are tired like pillows – I want to stroke your hair until dreams drizzle your eyelids and your face doesn’t fight expression the way it does when you’re awake. I wait. I wait.”

“One day he says, “I am so tired,” and you nod. You say, “I’m sorry.” This is how it is; how it’s always been. He shakes his head and you apologise for being the cause of his stress. Neither of you are wrong. Neither of you are right. He says, “I don’t know what to do anymore. Are you happy?” You can’t say yes; and you don’t want to say no, just because you’re unhappy doesn’t mean you want him to go. He asks you, “does love even factor into this anymore?” And you think it must, it must, but all your problems revolve around something else - like arguing about undercooking the eggs; like getting jealous about their ex; like hurting them and not apologising; like always having to be right. He holds you gently one night, he says, “am I the one?” You think, “I want you to be. Fuck. Don’t you understand?” You say, “of course you are,” and you don’t return the question. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t say it back.”

“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”

“Who told you only the soft could be good mothers? That mothers could not be dragons in disguise? That women who teach their daughters how to preserve themselves by breathing out lightning were any less than wild, magical things when teaching their young about war and love’s terrible lies?”

Stephen King