Coming Home.

It had been six long months. Six, unbearably cold, frustratingly heart-breaking months ridden with the fresh anguish of separation. As she rushed, her golden hair flowing behind her, she could spare no thought to the winds that lifted her feet or the soft grass that ever-so-slightly crunched under her toes. No moments separated the thoughts of her daughter from the beginnings of roots and unfurling of buds from their vines.

What must be the state of her child? Her poor baby girl, tricked by Death and chained by the bitter seed of her own fruit. Near starved, no doubt, as the world felt in the absence her beautiful child to tend to their grains and welcome their bountiful, golden harvests. Perhaps, anxious, full of stories and terrible demons to hush up and cover with soft kisses and gentle lullabies? Perhaps, terrified, unable to wash the wicked happenings of her blue eyes? Perhaps, overjoyed, ready to hug her mother once more and to shake the trees alive with her peals of laughter?

The thoughts wrapped their silken fingers in tight embrace around the mother's heart, the last welling her eyes and lifting the corners of her mouth. She came to a standstill, surveying the tangled mess of vines and new fruit, purple flowers unfurling in spurts. Her heart raced as she began to make out the lines of a face, thinly veined eyelids fluttering open and closed. The vegetation began to find their lives renewed as she hovered impatiently over the emerging face with one thought- her baby was coming home.