Painting by Parkes

Gargoyle Lament

            I have never seen her face.  She comes to the rooftop almost every day now, sometimes with her sister, sometimes alone.  She plays with her jump rope, or has a tea party with her dolls and teddy, or sometimes sits near me and quietly reads.  I can feel her vitality when she comes near, and it warms me more than the summer sun.  If I were to guess her age by the sound of her voice, I would say that she is thirteen years old, fifteen at the most.  But her manner speaks of timeless maturity. 

She does not realize, but I have known her for many decades.  Once before, I knew her when she was eighty, and her skin was pale and wrinkled.  Again, I knew her when she was nineteen, and childishly insisting to be treated as an adult.  Yes, she has lived many lives, and I have lived only this one.  One hundred and twenty-seven years of guarding my building, her home. 

Yesterday, she was playing here with her sister.  They were giggling and teasing each other.  Her sister dared her to look over the edge of the building down at the street below.  She was fearless as she walked to the ledge right beside me.  She had never been so close to me before.  I felt her breath warm against my neck as she leaned over.  And when she wrapped her arm over my shoulder, the touch sent a bolt of electricity through me.  I knew I had to be steadfast, but I was molten inside.  In that eternal instant, my existence changed.  She ran off to chase her sister, who was already running downstairs to tell on her.  And I was left behind, stunned and shivering in the cool spring breeze.

The gargoyle next to me watches me with wary eyes because he thinks I will do something stupid.  He calls me a fool when we are alone at night.  He hisses at me in the daytime when she comes up to play.  But what does he know?  He is younger than I am, and perhaps jealous.  After all, she never touched him, never leaned on him for support.  He does not know what he’s talking about, so I don’t listen.

She was crying this morning as she came out the door at the top of the stairs.  She collapsed onto the cold stone ground directly behind me, sobbing shamelessly.  How I wanted to turn, to comfort her, to wipe away her tears.  But I did not move.  All I could do was to listen as sobs were gradually reduced to whimpers and hiccups, then to sniffles.  I could hear her get up when her tears eventually ceased, and my stone heart began to heal a bit.  I don’t know what made her so unhappy.  But she has been here all morning since, quiet and alone.  But I don’t mind.  I love to feel her presence, live to know she is there, long to feel her touch again.  But I know my place.  I mind my post.  I think of mundane things and try to keep my heart from jumping in my chest.

A bubble rides the breeze close to my face, then a few more.  She stands so fearlessly at my post and watches her perfectly round creations float away over the city.  Would she be so brave if she knew my desires?  I sit motionless and watch the bubbles too.  Perhaps I should try to capture one.  Yes, then she would know me for more than a statue.  She would love me for my strength and stability.  She would love me for the years of unyielding guard I have given to her home.  She will love me!  If I can just reach one magical sphere that carries her breath on the wind, she will love me.  If I can just reach…one…