If I had a heart with which to love him even more, I am not sure how I would survive even seconds without him by my side. I am happy that I do not have a heart with which to love him, because absence can no longer make my heart grow fonder.

BY JUNO LAUZIERE

IMAGE BY EBRU KUR

Upon the crest of the hill, I sit. Searching for companionship always.

The crest of this hill is important to me—I died, here, millenniums ago, and I still sit and think of how it felt for my soul to leave me completely. It was not painful as one might expect, and was not in any way sad. It was peaceful, as I lay with my crying lover, feeling like I was finally free.

The hill is a common place for sports, and I used to watch the children play discus and run around the track a few kilometres away. I don’t know what they’re playing anymore, and sometimes they just sit in a circle and show each other their electronic boxes. But still, I smile, though a flower does not smile well, and think of how much fun they may be having. I don’t wish to join them, for my time has come and gone, but I think enthusiastically of what it was like when I was a child. It was different, of course—millenniums ago there was no technology, and most sport ended in death, but I still look back on those years fondly.

One day (I am unsure of the exact one, as they now blend together), as I sit and watch the children play, my favourite visitor arrives and takes a seat next to me.

He used to visit me every day, after my death. Then it became weeks, then months, then years, then decades—as time goes, so does memory. For an immortal being such as himself, it is not easy to remember all his conquests.

He sits, legs tucked together in the grass, and I take a moment to admire the perfection that he is. He is undeniably Greek, the most fundamentally so of all the gods; even his father, who rules the gods. He is good, as he is patron of all things good and just. Truth, music, poetry, and light. My mortal heart used to bleed for him. I used to cry for him, and he cried for me too.

“I’ve lost track of how long it’s been since you died,” he says, and for a moment, I feel myself become human once more.

I mean this in every sense except the literal one. I am still bodiless. My roots remain firmly in the soil. My form does not change as my spirit does, and if I were to close my metaphorical eyes and think very hard, I would be able to see the two of us, living and breathing and beautifully in love; sitting on the crest of this hill. I am still me and he is still he. One of his tears fall like rain onto a petal.

I cannot respond, for I do not have a mouth with which to speak, but if I could, I would smother him in comfort fit for a god. He is too beautiful to cry. Cease your tears, I would say, I lived the life I was meant to, and I am grateful to have held your company for the time which I did.  

He does not hear my thoughts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved the way I loved you. You are the first person that made me consider that maybe immortality is as much a curse as it is a blessing.”  

If I had limbs with which to hold him, I swear on what remains of myself that I would do so in a heartbeat. He looks more fragile than someone of his status ever should, and I find myself glad that the children running on the track see nothing but a plain man sitting on the crest of the hill. 

I love you, I think with my whole being, with every petal which makes up my body, with every stem and leaf. My love for you is immortal as you are. 

“Someone painted your death,” the god says. He sniffles. His tears bathe me in memories. It feels the same as when he cried over my body in its last moments, cursing the wind gods for my unfortunate fate. This . . . this hopeless tragedy and longing, is what love is. “He called it The Death of Hyacinthos. You are beautiful in the painting, you know, but I’m sure even the most talented of painters could not capture what I saw in you.”  

I remember the way he used to look at me, like he could not believe that I was right there, in front of him. He looked at me like some kind of dream, and to be looked at with such high regard by someone such as him—it was quite the honour, and quite the humbling experience. His love was tender. It was kind. 

I wish I could see you properly, because I cannot see him fully, he sits too far to one side, and I see only a flash of beautiful hair and tanned skin. I miss being loved by you.  

He reaches to me, beautiful hands caressing my petals, and he pulls one off. It doesn’t hurt me—it feels rather nice, knowing that after all of these years, there is a piece of him that would still take me with him. As if it was not against the wishes of the Fates. Even the gods cannot argue with the Fates, no matter how much they may want to. 

“I must be going,” he says, his voice low, like he would rather be saying anything else. I know, though, that gods are rather busy. He pockets the petal, and I hope he keeps it until the next time he visits me to get a new one.  

So soon?  

If I had a heart with which to love him even more, I am not sure how I would survive even seconds without him by my side. I am happy that I do not have a heart with which to love him, because absence can no longer make my heart grow fonder.  

“When civilization no longer needs me, I will grow from this hill for all of eternity with you, my love.”  

There is nothing I could ever want more than what he offers me. I smile, even without a mouth with which to smile.  

“I love you, Hyacinth.”  

I love you, Apollo. 

He leaves, and I pretend to not feel the loss at my side as I watch the children run around the track once more.  

I hope I see you again.

Juno Lauziere is a first year student at Humber College, enrolled in the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing program. Juno has been writing for as long as they could remember and they are thrilled to be part of this issue of Spotlight.

Image: Absence (Ebru Kur, 2023)

Edited for publication by Lily Hoyte, as part of the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.