An Offering

Do you know the story of the lone rose
Found only on a remote planet?

Her little hand peeks through the folds of her speckled gown. A cube of rainbow colours glows through her fingers. An offering.

I shake my head. Weariness, like dark dregs, weighs me down.

Do you want to hear it?
Do you have time?

Her questions mark her in the tradition of storytellers.

“No” quivers at the edge of my tongue.

I have tasks to do, and another, and another. The day’s work stretches before me. A long road in this planet of practical things.

But her face, rosy-pink with hope, stops my tongue. I remember that once there was a time when I too was the architect of my dreams, instead of being the servant of another’s.

Yes, yes. My lips make shape. My hand grasps her offering. She beams with delight and we begin making a universe.

Afterwards, when she isn’t looking, I take the cube. It’s dull now, a dying star in my palm, nearly exhausted of its gift. I hold it behind my back and leave, heading out into the night. To proffer another offer, be the light.