Weeping

All was shadowy and calloused, cool with the dampness of fresh breath. The moisture in the air hung heavy and deep, threatening my eyes. I will not cry. Of course, a seat at midnight beneath a weeping willow was not the most preventive choice. Tears threatened to drop, similar to the stars drifting serenely in the nighttime sky. They seemed to glide on translucent silver threads and wink in and out between the glimmers of the moon. Speaking of which, la Luna was spectacular tonight; a thick, golden wafer gazing down on the Earth. Harvest moons were magnificent, especially at midnight; like the eye of a celestial cat blinking occasionally. I love cats.

I wonder if he's watching the heavens this twilight. Perhaps he is crouched in a dim corner of his mattress, counting the stars and wishing for escape his minute world. A faint smile played on the corners of my lips at this notion. I chuckled internally and imagined the moonbeams dancing on his mane, black as the pitch from ear to ear, darting out erratically to form a halo.

My thoughts picked at the features of his face. His profile resembled the moon tonight. Everything chases him into my mind, these days, ever since the Department of Mysteries. The baffled expressions he struggled with when I mentioned something important; the perfect marring of his incandescent emeralds when tears forced their way out. It was all beautiful, and I didn't know why. Perhaps because of his enigmatic, troubled demeanor, or the ambiguity of his mood. He's in that developmental stage that centers around 'finding yourself,' which multiplies when a great loss occurs. I've always been an old woman in my mind, feeling like I'm going to die tomorrow and if I don't absorb all the information possible, my existence will have been wasted. After Mum died, everything seemed to decline spiritually; angst was in reigning power. I understand how he feels, and then I don't, because he's Harry. Everything in his life, his poor childhood, and the stress of the discovery of a hidden identity contributed to his current state of being. It must suck to be him, putting it plainly. He's got this unbearable burden, a 'save the world' deal, and a prophecy that vaguely states either he kills or he dies. Either way, he's scarred for life. Father always says that people make themselves that way, depending on how they see things. I think he's right, but it's much easier to be difficult when sad over pleasant.

A sluggish cumulonimbus wafted idly across the moon, obscuring its light temporarily. This signifies a rain shower, I realized glumly. But I never do go back inside with Father when it rains. I imagine the stars gliding down to Earth when it rains. I imagine myself shivering with my head thrust up into the atmosphere, eyes closed in the downpour, like a lone blue jay seeking shelter on the sleek, steeping branch of a damp, crisp weeping willow, dreaming of a distant raven. And damn it all,-I will not cry.