Illinois sat heavily on the ancient oak stump. She kicked a bit at the mixture of decayed wood and soil under her feet, rolled tobacco into the dry paper she had retained and smoked leisurely, exhaling slowly as her thoughts rolled forward, congealing into words she spoke, while looking away, toward Dew.

“Some people, many I guess, look back and think about those loves lost, opportunities faded, failed arrangements, they curl up or bite the sheets, unhappy with certain choices or outcomes; they’re angry, full of opinion and bitterness, but they never consider absence. Not me. I look back for a home, at even the simplest arrangement of familiar order, and I long for it, I pine, the greater crush, for belonging somewhere, more than for any capricious love. That is true, more than any hope I seek out, is a desire for home. My lost parents, my emptied room and the stack of blank paper leaves arranged near my window on which I wrote poetry; the sounds of our piano ringing out across open rooms. The exiled heart has no luxury to consider regret, only a raw and bold kind of fear, terror really, of what gives chase, and it is always absence just a pace away. When you know that fear, the world sees you as an outsider and you are silent, richer in your quietude than the loud who contest, who want despite having.”

“I am sorry you have to hurt that way, Illy.”

“Sorry doesn’t return my humanity, it doesn’t straighten the bend. But this isolation illumines, it reveals the love of God on high, for the world is just large enough and when we shrink it into the space of our uninjured but temperamental hearts, to fit our reasoning, then we can know only temporal experiences and frustration, but if we are awakened to the expanse, blanketed with humility, then we can become one with the Divine illustriousness and know that which is outside of us, that which is unseen.”

“Oh Illy, you lost me. Again! I’m tired too, just a bit. If you talk more, I will sleep and – hold me, please. I want you to know, that my not understanding you does not frighten me and it certainly does not motivate me to push you away. I love you and I am sure I always will however you express yourself, because you have shown me, that under all your course exterior and pain is a loyal and true friend, a splendid soul that has only given to me and never expected anything in return. I couldn’t imagine not trusting you or leaving you. I cannot imagine being without you.”

Illinois took Dew’s hand gently, grateful for her steadfast presence, while the world bred lovers of straw-men. The young London woman felt the calloused grip of Illinois’ hand over hers and wept softly for both of them knowing these moments would always become fewer and because Illinois would not cry.