Woman Justice by Rosalyn Wraight

Author:Rosalyn Wraight
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: lesbian detective, lesbian mystery, lesbian fiction
Publisher: Don't Waste Daylight
Published: 2019-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

And Emily wrote...

WHEN YOU WALK IN THE MIST

I positioned myself at the makeshift miniature desk in the towering hotel room, trying to feel at home in a foreign land. Dublin was not mine. The desk was not mine. The pen was not mine, not the chair, not the view, not the certainty. Even the thoughts that ran through my mind did not feel as if they belonged to me. My eyes and my heart wandered far from what was mine.

The view from the hotel window stretched vastly. The structures of the bustling city reached toward the pale blue sky. Some belonged to recent generations: modern tools, modern cement, had placed them there. Some proclaimed loudly that they were the ancient and proud sentinels of the land, watching, protecting, maintaining the legends and the roots that made this land what it was. The Four Courts. The Custom House. Dublin Castle. The old blended with the new on the palette of time.

The horizon of buildings seemed pasted upon the backdrop of luscious green mountains. The sun shone upon it all, making it a beacon, bringing the past and the present to life. How befitting, I thought, that this was the land first to hear Handel’s Messiah. Somehow, the view and its awe still echoed and owned each note, compelling anyone to feel at home in the world, and yet at the same time, hauntingly humble.

The River Liffey spanned within my sight. It seemed so close outside the window that I could almost hear the lapping sound as it slowly bled its way to the Irish Sea. Oscar Wilde had walked these banks, and W. B. Yeats, Samuel Beckett, George Bernard Shaw, and James Joyce. So many great writers had found themselves by the dark and deep River Liffey: the masters, the mentors, my teachers. This was home to them. This was the soil that had fed their roots—Ireland. I was here, grounded by the same soil, but where was I? Why weren’t my own words flowing like the river’s current? Why was my soul overcome in the river that I had always dreamed would inspire me? The only thing it inspired: awe and speechlessness, a reverent silence—the sacred place beyond words.

As I rambled in thought, in introspection, I heard the fragile sounds of sleep leaving her. I turned from one magnificent view to the next: the portrait of Dublin, framed by a window, to the bed that embraced the one I loved. My gypsy woman stirred. I watched her contort, stretch, and twist herself in the white linen. She shifted until finally she rolled to face me. Her eyes opened slowly, like reluctant shades upon the day. Her soft lips formed the morning smile that could chase every fragment of emptiness away from me. Just her smile. Her smile could produce more inspiration, more awe, more life than the banks of the River Liffey could even imagine. Just her smile. Her smile. God, how I worshiped her first smile of the day!

“Morning,” her word pulled from a yawn.

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