Alone

Brit stretched out curling her toes before snuggling back against Ethan. “Maybe it will snow outside. It is getting cold enough, I think,” she said. Ethan grinned down at her noticing that she had dressed in her bathing attire that he had obtained for her when they went on the cruise. Brit plucked at the skirt and seemed lost in thought. “Perhaps I should have worn something more.”

Pulling her closer, Ethan reached for a blanket that lay near and wrapped it over her. Brit's clothing choices always interested him. Tonight’s choice made him wonder whether Brit made her decisions based on memories rather than requirements of the world around her. As she cuddled against him, he felt her body heat radiate beneath the blanket. Taking advantage of her short sleeves, he stroked her skin gently. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But it matters not for now, Brit. You look charming.” Shifting slightly, he picked up a book and opened it, “Tonight, I thought it would be enjoyable to share a poem or two.”

“A poem. Like a story that rhymes ?” she asked as she looked curiously at the book. “Does it have pictures?”

Ethan pulled her head to his chest and shook his head slightly. “Poems often paint the picture in your mind. That is what makes them special. They need not to rhyme. Close your eyes and just listen to the words.” She turned toward him laying her arm across his body. Ethan blinked and pulled her closer musing that she fit like a missing piece of his puzzle. His fingers adjusted her hair so he that he could see her face.

Seeing questions form in her mind, he placed a single finger to her lips. “Shhh. Just listen.” Brit kissed the fingertip and smiled up at him causing him to give her a single nod before he opened the small brown book and read, “Alone by Edgar Allan Poe.” Looking down, he noted that she seemed to look at the book as if it yielded pictures. Flipping the page, he read:

“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.”

Brit looked up at him at the pause at the end of the stanza. “It rhymes maybe a little bit,” she commented. He nodded and waited patiently to see if she had gleaned any insight within the poem. Brit processed. Brit liked thinking about things when he was near. He never rushed her and never grew impatient. “Is it a boy that is talking?” she inquired.

“It does not say, Brit, but I do not think it matters.” Her body had grown warm beneath the blanket and his fingers enjoyed the feel of her soft skin. Brit processed more and could almost feel his presence within her mind which caused her to smile up at him. “I agree, baby. Different.” It was a captured thought and he grew more secure that it belonged to her. Satisfied, he continued to read:

“From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.”

“Is sadness and joy the same to him?” Ethan did not reply and so she asked, “Does his heart love both?” Brit tilted her face up to see whether his expression gave any clues.

Ethan shrugged closing the book slightly but marking it with a single finger. “Poems mean different things to different people, baby. There is no right or wrong answer.”

He felt her confusion as she stumbled for black and white understanding. She pressed her head back blinking. “I think,” she lisped hesitantly, “his heart loves both sadness and joy.” Sensing that her thoughts had churned the verse and, now was waiting for more, he reopened the book and read:

“Then – in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life – was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:”

Silence followed for over 30 minutes. Her thoughts went over the words carefully. Ethan closed the book again so he could fully focus on Brit as she mulled over the words. Within her mind, he saw her dart from one path of understanding, come to a dead end, and back-up to run down another. Turning so her back nested in the crook of his arm, she ventured, “Maybe..the things that confused him as a child still makes him wonder.” Ethan touched the shell of her ear and waited for her to complete her thought, which came 24 minutes later. “Maybe, he remembers when he was little to help him explain stuff now no matter if it is good or bad?”

Ethan gave her an approving caress and said, “Does that make sense to you?” Brit thought it over and nodded to him. He grinned, “Then maybe that is what he meant.” She seemed satisfied with his response and leaned against his chest to hear the next verse. Ethan continued:

“From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,”

Ethan started on the following part when he was interrupted by Brit asking, “Do you miss the feel of the sun?”

Her question caused him to pause. Though he had not thought of it in years, he caught a glimpse of a memory of himself as a small boy whose skin was browned by the summer sun. The dew-kissed mornings and red-sky evenings were such a distant memory. His fingers trailed down her arm as he responded, “I believe we all miss what we no longer have. And often we desire what is absent from us.” Seeing her thoughts start to divert toward his response, he kissed her on the top of her hair and finished the poem:

“From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.”

The last stanza hung in the air. Brit processed and an hour passed. “His life was hard. And he was not like others. And good and bad all was part of his life and he needed his childhood memories to understand…because…because.” She nibbles her lower lip. “He was still the child maybe.”

Ethan could feel her struggling to comprehend within her mind. When frustrated by lack of connection, she would press against him as she processed. Her toes tapped when a connection was made. It was all very interesting to him. Brit whispered, “He saw demons and darkness where others see heaven and happiness, maybe.” Ethan cocked an eyebrow at her comment. “Maybe he felt neither joy nor sorrow as a child. Maybe his life grew difficult…but…he was not like anyone else.” Looking up at him, she lisped, “Alone.”

Ethan felt pleased that she seemed to be able to justify the title. With a glance to the book, he placed it aside. The book reflected parts of his life well. His fingertip lingered on it for a moment as he thought darkly that other parts of it fit well too. Brit’s voice pulled him from the musings. “You are not alone anymore, Ethan.” Her words pulled memories that he was happy to leave long dormant.

“Neither of us will ever be alone again, Brit,” came the quiet reply. Brit smiled snuggling happily against him -- oblivious to dark inner demons that can work within one’s mind.