Notes from the depths

[kiya]

His forearms are massive, and prickle with heat. I have thin, frail arms, especially by comparison to that bulk; the weight of His arms is amazing. I feel the grit of the sand against the soles of my feet, the sand and that same burning heat that comes with the weight of those arms. His ears are held stiffly upright, and I can feel against the side of my head and my temple the thick skin-warmed band of the gold ring piercing the left one, a ring that I believe in remembering must be larger than the palm of my hand -- the size of my hand with fingers out to the first joint, as I crook my hand into a claw, and as thick around as two of my fingers.

I think through things that I have, things that I can make offering: the sand, the oil I got that the woman selling said was a scent made specially for Him, the alcohol we have. I could cook a meal, find the heat and the spice that would make Him smile, and we could share that.

I ask teinedreugan to get some henna. It's past time to redye my hair and bring out the red. This time, I think I will make a Rite of it, and include that within my offerings.

This morning, He is not here, not running along my nerves and confounding us about our body-shape. The memories are still here, weight and heat, and we are listening. We will find our fire again, and find Setekh again, who is there even when we are blinded to Him.