~Two People The Earth and The Sky~

He came to visit her sometimes, in her little church on the outskirts of the city. He never stayed long, but she didn't mind – it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if just for a little while. There was her mother, of course...but it just wasn't the same as having someone her own age to talk with. She never invited him over to her house, even though it wasn't far from the church – she would have been far too embarrassed when her mother would undoubtedly interrogate him. Her mother, as tired as she would be after a long day at the factory, would sit him down, cook him a solid meal with the meager provisions they had, and demand to know all about him – especially his intentions with her only daughter. Her mother would look at him with hard eyes, the kind of look only achieved by living a difficult life for too long – the same life her mother tried to shield her from – and he'd be scared away for good. She didn't want that.

He was only a year older than her, seventeen, but tall and lean – he would have looked much older than his age, if it hadn't been for the boyishness of his face. Or maybe it was the hair – his hair, like the color of raven's feathers, it never laid down straight, but maybe that was because he styled it that way. She couldn't tell, but there was a playfulness to it she liked. It suited him.

He'd promised to come see her again that night, so she was waiting in her church – well, it wasn't really hers. She didn't own it. But no one else was ever there, and she was the only one who used it, so she thought of it as hers. It was where she grew her flowers, in a section of the floor where the boards had been ripped away, leaving only an circle of soil. In any case, she was going to teach him how to plant flowers.

She sat in one of the old pews, facing the flowers, but not really seeing them. It had been by accident that they'd met – or maybe fate, or destiny, or something like that. She didn't really know. Maybe it was a mark of how little she had to think about, but she could remember vividly the night he had walked into her world.

-

She never liked to be out in the slums when it was getting dark – all sorts of undesirable characters emerged in the night time. Prostitutes, drunken men, thieves and muggers, they all thrived in the late hours of the slums. She felt out of place, and a little scared, but she was determined to sell her flowers. She was only sixteen, and she didn't have a job (she wasn't willing to do what the other girls in the slums did for money), but she tried to make some money to help out her mom at home.

So she was out on a street corner again, clutching her basket, a smile plastered on her face, even though her body was tensed, ready to run if she needed to. The streets around her were lit up with the neon glow of flickering bar signs, other ones flashing advertisements for "Girls, Girls, Girls!"

She heard him before she saw him. Gravel crunched, and a few crumpled cans skittered out of his way as he walked up behind her. She turned, reminding herself to keep the smile on her face, even though part of her was ready to bolt. It struck her how blue his eyes were, almost violet, but they sort of glowed – maybe it was just the street lights.
"Have you been near the power plants?" he asked her, which she thought was an odd way to start a conversation.

"Excuse me?"

"Er, sorry," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. "Just...they're really green. I thought maybe you'd been exposed to radiation or something."

She laughed at the absurdity of this, shaking her head in amusement. The only people who were ever around the power plants were soldiers and protestors. Ever since the power plant accident a year ago in March of '79, more and more people had taken to marching in front of the power stations, spouting concerns about radiation. It seemed silly to her that they would protest outside of the power plants if they were really that worried about radiation – then again, maybe people just wanted something to protest about.

"No, I haven't been near the power plants."

"Right. Sorry," he apologized again. "What I really meant to ask was what you had there." He pointed to her basket, still clutched tightly in her hand, and she pulled back the white cloth covering it, then plucked a flower out, holding it up at eye level.

"Flowers. I sell them for a dollar."

"Flowers?" he sounded surprised. "You don't see those in the city – where'd you find them?"

"I grow them," she told him simply.

"Yeah? Well, I'll buy one – you, uh, from out of town?" He was giving her this look, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of her.

"No, I've lived here most of my life."

"Seriously?" He sounded incredulous, and she wondered if he thought she was kidding him. "You could have fooled me."

She just smiled, shrugging her shoulders, eyes downcast. She wasn't going to dress like all of the other girls found down this way. She wasn't here to sell herself.

"Here," she said, holding a blue flower out to him. "It matches your eyes." Except, the flower couldn't quite capture that hint of purple, and it wasn't quite as brilliant, she thought.

"Uh, thanks," he replied, taking the flower gently, as though afraid he might crush it. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, digging out his wallet. He slid it open with his finger, eyebrows scrunching together momentarily, but then he pulled out a five dollar bill, pushing it into her hand.

"Keep the change."

"Oh – I..." she hesitated, embarrassed. Did she really look so poor? Was he pitying her? "I couldn't..."

"Don't worry about it!" He flashed her a smile, and she blushed in spite of herself.

"Well...thank you," she finally said, still gazing at the money in her hands, unsure of what else to say to him. Part of her was fighting her, too proud to except his pity money, but the other part of her knew she and her mother needed this money.

"I guess I'd better be going," he said. A swell of disappointment grew in her chest, and she berated herself for what she was going to ask next – he was only a stranger, after all, but she felt some sort of pull to him, and she couldn't stop herself.

"Will I see you again, sometime?"

"Maybe," he shrugged. "I work most nights."

"Oh. Okay." She felt stupid for asking, and she had the desire to sink right into the ground.

"Next time I have the night off, I'll come 'round this way, okay?" he said, in a way that she imagined one friend might tell another when they were making plans. She nodded at him, a smile forming again.

"Bye," he said, twirling the blue flower between his fingers, and she gave him a little wave, then covered her basket once more. She watched him as he walked away, the way he held his head up high, his stride purposeful and self assured, and she thought he was either oblivious to the dangers of the slums, or he was completely confident in his ability to defend himself. She memorized him for a moment, and then tore her eyes away and slipped away from the street corner, intent on getting home before it got too late. She hadn't asked his name, she realized, but she was hopeful that he'd come back around again.

-

The creak of the tall wooden doors announced his arrival, followed by the knock of his boots on the floor, pulling her from her musings. His pace sped up as he hurried toward her, and he threw himself over the back of the pew she was sitting in, landing with a thud next to her, beaming gleefully. The pew groaned beneath them.

"You're going to break it," she scolded him, holding back a smile.

"Nah, good old wood like this, it's sturdy. See?" To prove his point, he stood up on the pew and jumped up and down noisily.

"Stop it," she laughed, and he leaped off the pew smartly, saluting her.

"Yes ma'm."

"Good. Now come here," she said, leading him over to the circle of dirt and flowers in the middle of the church. The only reason they could grow at all in the church was because of the hole in the roof – sunlight poured in, and the little flowers reached up, soaking up the rays.

He hesitated, rocking back on his heels. "What?" He eyed the flowers nervously. She couldn't help but smile – the first time she had brought him to her church, he'd carelessly stepped on a few of her flowers, and she'd pushed him out, scowling and berating him for it, saying, "Don't step on the flowers!" Clearly, the message had left an impression on him, because he seemed unwilling to walk forward.

"Step around them," she instructed.

"What are we doing?" He slid his foot in between flowers, dirt pushing up into small piles as he drug his boots along carefully.

"I'm going to teach you how to plant flowers."

"Me? Plant?" He laughed, shaking his head. "I don't think I'll be any good."

"Nonsense."

"Okay," he said with reluctance, and she tugged on his arm so he'd kneel next to her in the dirt. She never minded getting her white sundress a little dirty, and she was pleased that he didn't care about getting his jeans dirty either. Then again, most boys didn't mind a little dirt, she'd found. "Now what?"

"Hold out your hand," she instructed, and he complied, palm up. She noticed rough callouses in the creases of his fingers as she dropped several small seeds into his outstretched hand. He examined them quizzically, like he'd never seen anything quite like them, then closed his hand around them.

"Now, make some holes in the dirt."

He used his free hand and poked at the loose dirt experimentally. "How big should they be?"

"They don't have to be very big," she assured him, and he dug his index finger down, twisting until he was satisfied.

"Like that?"

She smiled. She preferred to scoop the earth up with her hands, to feel it trail between her fingers, but his method was perfectly fine, too. There was something less feminine about it, she supposed, the way he just shoved his finger in and twisted. It was almost a violent gesture, but he looked at her with such uncertainty that she knew he wasn't really being violent – he just didn't know any other way.

"That's good. Put a seed in."

He plucked one of the small seeds from his palm carefully, bringing it up to his eye and squinting. "It's hard to imagine this will grow into something."
"It will, I promise."

"I believe you," he said, and he dropped the seed into the hole he'd made. His eyes met hers again as he waited for further instruction.

"Cover it up. Then we'll water it." She watched him as he swiped his open hand over the dirt, filling the small hole. Then he patted the dirt, like a boy would pat his dog on the head. She reached next to her for the watering can, then handed it to him, their hands brushing together briefly.

"Don't use too much water," she warned as he began to pour. She stopped him when he'd watered the seed enough, and he set the watering can down, water sloshing noisily inside.

"That's it?" he asked.

"Do the rest."

So he did, shoving his fingers into the dirt and twisting, again, then dropping all the seeds in, and watering them. He sat back when he was done, eyes on the dirt.

"You just planted," she told him, a smile tugging at her lips.

"So what now? You just wait for them to grow? How long does it take?"

"Oh, a couple of weeks, I suppose," she shrugged. "And after that, you take care of them."
"That seems...kind of boring," he admitted.

"It can be."

"Kind of nice, though. We don't do anything like that where I work."

"What do you do?" she asked him, curious. They hadn't talked much about him – he'd only been around a few times, and usually not for very long.

"I'm a soldier."

"You're a soldier? Aren't you a little young?"

He scoffed. "No! I joined a year ago – most of us join young."

"I guess I never realized."

They were quiet for a long time. He poked at the dirt some more, drawing lines and shapes with his fingers, and she watched, wondering if the callouses on his hands were from weapons. She would have never guessed that he was a soldier – he seemed far too cheerful and nice. All the soldiers she had met...well, they were either much older, or much less kind, or much more interested in getting with her than getting to know her. Her fingers worried away at the ends of her hair, pulled back into its usual braid, wondering what she should say to him.

She wasn't sure how she felt, knowing he was a soldier, knowing that he was probably one of the men who stood outside the power plants to keep protestors from getting inside, or causing too much ruckus. She wondered if he'd killed people before, shot them down with those hands, the same ones that had just carefully planted tiny seeds. It was strange for her to think of this boy, barely older than her, holding a gun, eyes hard, teeth bared, taking someone's life. She could barely picture it, not with the way he was peering at her now, a crooked smile on his face, blue eyes bright and curious.

"Are you happy?" she asked him finally, breaking the silence that had built up between them.

"What do you mean?"

"As a soldier. Are you happy? Isn't your job dangerous? I mean...working by the power plants...getting sent off to fight, all the time."

He frowned, a puzzled expression crossing his face, and she wondered if he had ever considered being happy before.

"I guess I am," he said slowly. "I...ever since I was little, I dreamed of being a soldier. I like protecting people."

"Have you...have you ever shot anyone before?"

"What?" He was clearly startled, and she looked away, embarrassed by her own tactlessness.

"I'm sorry. That was rude of me. I'm prying, and I barely know you...it was a personal question. I'm sorry." She was rambling, she knew, but the words kept spilling from her tongue.

"Hey, no, it's okay," he assured her, scratching at his head, ruffling his already messy hair even more. "I've never killed anyone, no, if that's what you're asking. I mean, I got weapon training at boot camp, you know...but, uh, I've never been stationed anywhere else. I just guard the power plants at night. National security and what not. It's boring, but...what can you do, right?" he asked her, shrugging his shoulders.

"Isn't it lonely?"

He stared at her, then, the intensity of his gaze making her stomach flutter nervously.
"Not any more lonely than spending your days in an abandoned church, planting flowers, I suppose," he said, not unkindly. He was smiling at her again.

It was her turn to frown. She had hoped that he wouldn't realize that about her – that he was her only companion of any sort. That she never had anyone else visit her, and that she spent most of her days away from her house, preferring instead to whittle the time away in an old abandoned church, trying to make some part of the city beautiful.

"Hey, so, show me how to take care of flowers that have bloomed," he said, reaching out and touching a yellow flower petal. "That way I can come back and take care of the flowers I planted."

She blinked at him, at a loss for words.

"What? I have to take care of them, don't I? And...we can talk some more. I mean, I don't know very much about you still."

"Okay," she said, a bubble of happiness swelling up inside her. "Well, first, you always need to check for weeds..."

***

He took her out to a field of flowers once, just outside the city limits. He usually only worked nights, so he was able to come spend the day with her. He had told her she needed to get out more, and that he was going to take her somewhere outside the city, somewhere she'd like.

"Hello, my little flower girl!" he called out, running up to the church doors, where she stood, waiting.

"Hello, my handsome soldier boy!" she called back. He'd started calling her that – his little flower girl. So she'd decided to call him her soldier boy – of course, he later insisted that she add 'handsome' to his title.

The sun was bright overhead that day, blazing brightly, but a cool breeze swept along occasionally, keeping the day from getting too hot. She liked the slums better during the day. The streets were filled with small children playing and shrieking with laughter, and there were not as many girls lurking on corners, or as many drunken men stumbling between bars. The sunshine made the slums seem almost nice.

When they had reached the field, he had pulled her down into the grass and flowers, grinning boyishly.

"Look at all these flowers," he said, reaching out and plucking one from the dirt.

"That's a dandelion," she said.

"What's your point?"

She didn't have the heart to tell him they were weeds, so she just smiled. "They're lovely."

He nodded, then flopped back, sighing and closing his eyes, the sunshine lighting up his tanned features.

"This is what we're doing today?" she asked, following his example and laying down in the grass.

"Yeah."

So they both lay there, warming under the sun's heat. She stared up at the sky, puffy white clouds rolling by, being pushed by a wind too high up for her to feel.

"You know, as much as I love the city, I miss my hometown, sometimes," he said, and she turned her head to look at him. He had rolled onto his side, pushing up onto his elbow and resting his head in his hand.

"Where'd you live before?"

"Nowhere important. Just a small town. My parents are still there, though. They probably always will be. I couldn't stay though...I liked growing up there, but it was dull. By the time I was thirteen, I couldn't wait to get out of there, you know?"

She nodded in agreement. She felt like that sometimes, living in the city, so polluted. She wanted to move away, live someplace where the air was clean, and where there were wide open spaces. Maybe the countryside.

"What about you?"

"Hmm. I don't know. I've lived here as long as I can remember. I guess I don't know anything different."

"Well, what do you want to do when you grow up?"

She shrugged uncertainly. "I don't know."

"I bet you become a florist."

"You think?"

"Oh yeah, you're a natural," he grinned, winking.

"I still have to finish school," she sighed, glad it was summer. "I think my mom wants me to go to college, too. I doubt florist is a profession you go to college for."

"So? Do what you want, not what your mom wants. Besides, she loves you. She'll be happy with any choice you make, I bet."

She chuckled. He was always like that – optimistic and carefree. It made her wish she was more like that.

"Do you think you'll always be a soldier?"

"No. One day I'd like to settle down, I guess. Marry. Have kids. I don't want to spend my whole life fighting. Or guarding power plants," he added.

"That sounds nice." He reached over and slid his hand into hers, making a humming noise in his throat. He inhaled loudly through his nose, then said:

"You smell like dirt."

She hit him on the arm. "Hey, that's not very nice!"

"Not in a bad way!" he protested, rubbing his arm even though she knew she hadn't hurt him.

"How can smelling like dirt be a good thing?" she asked.

"It's how you always smell. Like dirt and flowers and just...earthy. It's not a bad thing."

"Oh," she said. "Why are you going around smelling me? You're so weird," she teased, and he laughed, shaking his head, looking up at the sky.

"Hey. You ever hear about the sky and the earth?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning to lay on her side so she could see him better.

"Oh, you know...the one about how they were in love."

She smiled slyly. "Are you secretly a romantic?"

He shrugged his shoulders up and down, half his mouth curling up. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

"Go ahead."

"So, long ago, when everything was created, way before people, the sky and the earth were in love, or so they say -"

"Who's they?"

"I don't know. It's just what I heard. Now stop interrupting."

"Sorry."

"Right. Where was I? Oh yeah. It was said that at the beginning of time, the sky and the earth fell in love, although they were very different. The sky was a free spirit, always on the move, never content to be in one place. The sky was fast and reckless. The earth, on the other hand, took its time, and was content to stay in one place as long as it took. The earth was very patient, while the sky was the complete opposite." As he spoke, he gestured with his hands, making them zoom around as he told her about the sky. She giggled at his antics, her interest piqued.

"Regardless, they both fell in love, and they longed for one another. The sky knew that if it embraced the earth, though, it would crush all the creatures below, and so they had to remain separate. The earth grew trees that stretched high into the sky in an effort to be closer, and the sky would caress the leaves with the wind, pretending they were the earth. The earth pushed mountains upward, higher than even the tallest of trees, and the sky draped the mountains in clouds.

"It wasn't long, though, before the earth began to die. The trees lost their leaves, and the green grass began to turn brown. They said the earth was dying without the sky, because they had to be separated." She frowned, plucking up blades of grass, imagining the world brown and colorless. It wasn't hard to picture – living in the slums of the city was almost the same thing.

"What happened next?" she asked quietly, wriggling on the hard ground to try and get more comfortable, blades of grass tickling her arms. She picked one of the nearby dandelions, one that had dropped it's yellow petals already and was a white, fuzzy parachute ball. She brought it up to her lips and blew gently, but it was enough to send the seeds flying away. She watched them as they floated upward, drifting slowly in the easy afternoon breeze.

"The sky, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as the earth died, began to cry. And so it rained. The rain was what the earth needed. The browns faded away and became vibrant greens once more; the trees grew their leaves, and the earth was happy. The sky had cried so much that its tears filled the cracks in the earth until they became rivers, and soon the rivers became oceans. The earth had a part of the sky, now. Sometimes, the sky still cries, because they both long for one another, but know they are unable to be together. But the sky loves the earth, whether it's storming and raging, or the clearest of blues you've ever seen, and the earth loves the sky, and still pushes its mountains higher and wills its trees to stretch their limbs to the limits, in an ever continuing effort to touch the sky." He finished his story, pointing one hand up to the sky, arm outstretched, his other hand grasping hers.

"That's kind of sad," she said after a long moment, a naked dandelion in her hand, the air still filled with floating seeds.

"Yeah, a bit. I like the story, though. And..." he trailed off, chewing his lip.

"And what?"

"Kind of reminds me of us."

"We're together right now, though," she reminded him.

"Of course we are. I only meant that, well...we're really different," he scratched at the back of his head, apparently searching for words, which she found almost ironic since he had just told her such a wonderful story. Like maybe he had used up all his nice words. "I guess I just think you're kind of like the earth, is all. My earth, I suppose."

He wasn't looking at her, but she knew he was anxious for some kind of response. She let the gravity of what he said rest on her mind, and strangely, it was more like helium, filling her up and making her feel light, and like she might join the dandelion seeds, floating in the air.

"Well, only on one condition," she said. His head jerked in her direction, and his eyes locked on hers. "If I'm going to be your earth, you have to be my sky."

"Alright," he said, trying to be casual even though he was smiling so widely, she wondered how his cheeks didn't hurt. "Only, I'm not going to have to do a lot of crying to keep you happy, will I?"

She laughed, taking his hand again. "No, as long as you're happy, I'm happy."

***

He came to say goodbye, before he left.

"I don't want you to leave," she whispered.

"I know," he said, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "I have to go, though."

He was being sent to Russia, something about diplomacy, to end the Cold War, but she knew it was more like military intimidation. He had also mentioned nuclear weapons. She wasn't exactly clear on what was happening – only that he was leaving. The idea terrified her.

"Don't," she told him, hands scrabbling for his. "Please. Stay here with me instead."

She knew she sounded desperate, but the idea of him going off to war, of possibly dying, it filled her with icy panic. He smiled sadly, and she thought for a moment he might actually consider staying, but then he shook his head slowly.

"I'm sorry. But I'll be fine. Don't worry. I'll be home before you know it."

She frowned, nostrils flaring the way they did when she was trying not to cry. She bit her lower lip, dropping her gaze, trying to stay strong and not break down.

"You'll have to take care of my flowers while I'm gone, okay?" he told her, because she wasn't saying anything. She looked back at the flowers he'd planted – blue ones, just like the one he'd purchased from her that first day, a year ago – and a watery smile formed on her face.

"Of course. Just promise to come back soon – I can't take care of everything for you." She tried to joke, trying to stay lighthearted, even though there was an almost indiscernible tremor in her voice, giving her away.

He swallowed hard, clearing his throat. "Yeah. They can't keep me away from you for too long. I'll come racing home," he promised, tucking a loose strand of her brown hair behind her ear. She leaned into his touch, resting her cheek against his hand.

"When do you have to go?" she whispered.

"Really soon – its short notice...I'm shipping out tonight."

"So soon?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"I'll write you," she said, taking a deep breath.

"I'll write, too, if I can."

She nodded, then threw herself into his arms, burying his face into his chest. He sighed sadly and drew his arms around her, holding her firmly against him. She didn't want him to let go. She just wanted to stay there, for the moment he had to leave to never come.

"I have to pack," he said finally. "They're waiting for me." He pulled away reluctantly, kissing her gently before dropping his arms to his side.

"Stay out of trouble for me, okay my little flower girl?"

"Of course, my handsome soldier boy." She smoothed his hair down, a habit of hers, but one he never really minded.

"I'll see you when you get back."

"I'll be waiting."

***

He never wrote back.

She wrote him for four long years, so many letters, she lost count, but he never wrote back. Part of her worried that he was dead. That same part of her hoped he'd just found someone else, even though the idea made breathing hard. It would be better than him being dead. She couldn't bear the thought.

Still, she hoped he would write back. Or show up at the church doors one day, beaming at her, hair scruffy and messy, and beautiful, his blue, almost violet eyes twinkling with laughter and good cheer. She spent every day in her church, carefully tending to her flowers, picking some to sell out on the streets, planting others when there was room. She took care of the flowers he'd planted, and replanted the same kind every spring, using the same method he had, shoving her finger deep into the dirt and twisting around until a hole was drilled into the soil.

She prayed with all her might for news, to whom she didn't know. She just prayed.

And one day, she got news, but not the news she had been hoping for. A soldier showed up at her church doors, and her heart leaped up in her chest to her throat, because she thought it was him. But it wasn't – it was another young man, with a closely shaven head, and a grim expression on his face.

He gave her a box, an envelope with her name in sloppy handwriting taped to the top, and he expressed his condolences.

"I'm sorry. He died on his way home – he wanted to make sure this got to you. He was a good man."

The soldier seemed sincere, but also distant, and the way he had broken her the news, so blunt and professional made her want to slap him across the face, to scream at him to stop lying. But no words came out, and she couldn't find the strength to lift her own hand.

The young soldier left her, with the box held loosely in her hands. She opened the box, hands shaking, mind buzzing weakly. Her lungs had filled with ice water, and she couldn't draw in any breath. Something inside her had frozen.

Inside the box was a collection of letters – her letters, the ones she'd sent to him. He'd gotten them, after all. She had wondered if maybe they hadn't ever made it to him, and that was why he'd never written back...but he'd gotten them. Underneath the many letters was a journal, the cover plain black, but the edges were worn and frayed, like the journal had been used frequently. She could imagine his calloused hands, turning over the journal daily, bending the book between his fingers.

She took the envelope with her name on it and opened it with some difficulty, still unable to process what was happening. She slid the letter out, fumbling to unfold it, and read:

I am sorry that you are reading this. If you are, it means I am dead, and I broke my promise. I'm sorry I never made it home to you. I'm sorry I could never write back to you – we weren't allowed, something about security, and intercepted letters. They don't want any information leaking out into the wrong hands, so they're not taking any chances. I'm so sorry.

I hope one day you will find happiness again. But I also hope you don't forget me. Just don't be too sad, for too long. Keep growing your flowers – fill the city with them. Make it beautiful. I know one day we will meet again, though I hope it is far in the future. I want you to live a long, wonderful life, you hear? I wrote letters to you, in my journal, so read it, if you want. And remember – you're my earth. And I will always be your sky, even though I'm gone.

Stay good, my little flower girl.

Love,

Zack

She had started to cry when she read the letter, and she hadn't realized it until wet drops appeared on the paper. She hastily wiped at her face, a horrible sound escaping her mouth, mixed somewhere between a sob and a wail. He wrote about happiness, but she couldn't imagine ever feeling happy again – not now. Not with this dizzying ache inside of her, one that made her feel ill and weak.

The letter slipped from her fingers, and she plucked the journal from the pile of letters in the box and opened it, hoping the words he had written to her could somehow soothe her pain. Inside, pressed neatly between the first page and the front cover, was a blue flower, dry and fragile, and with a start, she realized that it was the one she'd sold him the first day they met. He'd kept it all that time. He'd taken it with him.

Outside, it began to rain.