I remember sleepless nights-
The incessant shifting in the heat, and my brother clinging to my sweat-laden shirt.
I woke up that night to see you skulking through our small tent, recollections coming to me.
You always complained about our way of living. How the gods never gave us gifts like the others, how you couldn’t keep up with our growing bodies. How- how, despite everything, it never seemed like enough. You left, then. To join them.
Why wouldn’t you, after all?
-
I remember countless mornings-
The incessant complaining of my brother asking when you’d come back. I didn’t know, I never did. It had been that way for years. In a way, he never grew up, like his mind stayed when you left in some form of remembrance. I took care of him as much as I could, but in the end, I’m just one person. A woman took him. She said I was “unfit to take care of him, when I could barely take care of myself.”
I can’t say I cried. I can’t say I missed him. I can say, however, that I think some part of it changed me. To this day, I wonder what you would think. I wonder what you’re doing now, if you found them.
Why wouldn’t I, after all?
-
I remember smoldering heat-
The shifting through the sands while I tried looking for him. Because of that, I got into trouble that I shouldn’t have, but I got out. I always do, somehow. I wonder if I got that from you. The other kin spit at me when I’m near, the weaker ones baring their fangs and spindles. They don’t like us much, I can tell. Why? I’m not sure. It’s like something is shifting in the sands, something that we can’t feel.
In the end, I didn’t find him. I’m sorry. I’ll keep trying, I promise. And after, I want to find you and talk to you. I want to ask you all sorts of things: How you felt when you left, what did you do to survive, how did you manage the hate from the others? Did you even care about that? I ponder these so much that it makes my head want to burst. Because… because.
I don’t know how you couldn’t.
-
Like my intestines were tying themself into a knot.
I searched through the hidden nomad camps of the- no, I will not use our names.. I always seemed to use the term for our people too brazenly, a habit I had long outgrown by the time I had realized that it brought more trouble than good.
I had to ask you, mother, do you know how much unrest everyone feels? Does it translate to that place? Do you even know that we exist anymore? That I do?
Do you understand the people, the screams? The countless times I have wondered whether or not you leaving us was a blessing or not.
I do not understand. I do not think that I ever will.
Seeing everything around us-
I’ve decided, I think. That people, no, we, need a guiding force.
The type to move mountains,
The type to build from nothing,
The type to bring water to a desert.
Once I have done that, mother, once I have taken the ever-growing task of healing us-
I will, no matter the cost, no matter the task, find you.
I will have answers.
~ Recollection of a private memoirs titled "A look at Mother", attributed to High Priestess Madame Spurr, found after death, and subsequent burial. Date of writing, currently undefined.