Dewdrops

False violet,

Robin runaway,

Star violet.

Dewdrops.

I have always been fascinated by dew, ‘The waters which spring from the heart.’

I had always thought it a metaphor, or a legend to explain it, emerged from a less scientifically developed era. Many people of the past viewed dew as an elixir for immortality, a substance that originated from the tree of life.

If dew was truly divine, if it possessed even a fraction of the abilities people of the ancient world claimed it did, then it would solve my own problems. Trying doesn’t hurt.

For years I’ve been collecting it from the plants in our now decayed back garden and keeping it into a jug I made from willow bark and black marble. On its wooden sides, I carved sunrays and crescent moons. I only took a sip per day, every day, so I would never suddenly run out.

But the dew soon turned sweet, too sweet. Our plants, especially the leaves, started to rust. I kept on drinking it daily; I couldn’t stop now. I craved it every moment of my life that I didn’t spend drinking.

I thought that the Gods or whoever had given these magical abilities to dew had finally decided to bless me as well, for my mother went missing. My father didn’t seem to notice, my brother didn’t care.

I didn’t hate her, but life without her was easier. There was only one hot headed parent to deal with now, only one would side with my brother, which was better than having both of my parents gang up on me.

I tried to take only one daily sip, but there were days I couldn’t resist, afternoons like these, when the hot air made my bones slick with sweat. My bottle was half empty, so I grabbed it and headed outside.

And there I saw it. My brother, holding a shovel. He wasn’t a gardener, so naturally panic started to sink in. I knew he had done something, he always tried covering up his tracks, but I could always tell when he had recently dug somewhere. He involuntarily taught me how to leave no traces of my mistakes, a lesson he never bothered to remember.

His free hand was covered with bloodied mud and clutching something. I instinctively walked towards him, to get a better look. He smelled cold and heavy, and putrid. My eyes watered as the smell clung to my nose, it cupped my face with invisible hands to suffocate me.

He turned around as I crushed a twig. I felt my gaze being pulled to his hand. Now knowing what he was holding, I remembered another name for dewdrops.

Mother heart.