Nothing Gold Can

His hair was a golden hume of desert sand splayed across her lap. Unlike Alton, her eldest son
had hair long enough to reach the base of his neck, with bangs framing a sleeping face. The irises that
glimmered the same molten gold were hidden behind closed eyelids, and a baggy darkness underneath
his eyes mirrored the lack of rest his body had been getting recently. It was a quiet evening, the silence
broken only by soft snores drifting in wavelengths, the darkening sky being proof of time’s
progression.
She let her fingers run through his hair, relishing in every fiber twirled around her finger, her
sweaty palms softened by strands woven by silk. His father’s hair had been equally a beautiful aurelian,
one of the many reasons she had fallen in love with him. Nelson’s soul had molded itself into a physical
body it seemed; and firmly she would reassure him: his heart was made in gold, no matter the rust those
treacherous years might have garnered.
She saw so much of him in her boy, in his smile, eyes, and the little habits he tended to do. Like
now, how his stomach was splayed out in the open, shirt hiked up by an unconscious hand. It was so
very cute, and she hoped he carried that adorable quirk in his later years.
A mellow sigh drifted from his mouth as he fidgeted slightly, rolling over to find a more
comfortable position. Settling on his side, his eyelids fluttered gently before closing once more. He’d
always been a heavy sleeper.
That being said, it was hard to get him to sleep in the first place. When he was younger, the boy
blatantly refused to sleep around anyone that wasn’t his mother. He clung to her like a lifeline, tiny
fingers clasped around the ends of her hair or bunched into her dresses. He only fell asleep around
those he trusted, she eventually realized, and cooed at the first time he fell asleep on Nelson. His
father’s face had been desperately panicked, but welled with tears at the sight of the little boy’s peaceful
expression. It would be a lie to say she didn’t miss those days, where her eldest didn’t hold resentment
as the only emotion towards his father.
 He fell asleep around Alton too, often by accident when trying to stay awake to watch over his
little brother. Once he confirmed that Alton was safely dreaming, only then did he drift off himself.
She was so glad he was a good older brother, so happy they had each other. Especially now, her sons
needed each other more than ever. Soon they would each be all the other had left, because Marion
Blakely knew she was dying.
It was inevitable, dying, and she knew she was lucky to live a mortal life. Living and dying,
taking your first and last breath, existence and its cease.
Let it be known Marion Blakely was not afraid of dying. She welcomed it with open arms,
when the day arrived where her sons would be wise enough to grieve their loss, but not death itself.
When both she and Nelson could comfortably leave the ever moving earth and lay rest as an
intertwined, singular one.
What she was afraid of was shattering that promised future, one spoken with no intent of ever
breaking. She would leave this earth unwhole, incomplete. And that terrified her to the very core.
There was nothing she could do to stop the flow of time, to end the snakelike spread of the
disease that plagued her body. It had started with a cough, as it always does. That cough morphed into
a nameless malady, claiming her body as its own to conquer, to destroy. Fire turned her fingers to ash,
and she was sure it burned straight through bone despite her skin being perfectly clear, head pounding
to her heartbeat loud and incessant, her eyes thrumming against her skull.
Take a nice vacation, the doctor had said. Take those kids of yours and make some memories
while you can.
But most of all, she was afraid of leaving her sons behind. She would never see her boys past the
ages of four and five. They were still so young, so frighteningly innocent. She believed in her boys with
a whole aching heart, yet there was no quelling the terror that racked her body. Two beautiful boys
would grow up without a mother’s warmth.
Marion reached out and took his hands, tracing the curved lines that etched into smooth skin.
A smile graced her son’s features, his tiny hand curling around her larger one with a hum of
contentment. His hands were so small, so silky, so delicate, so unburdened.
 It would be too much, she supposed, to hope those hands would always be as smooth as glass.
In truth, the world would sully more than just his hands with its unforgiving character, one
covered in dirt and grime and temptations that ended in vindictive disappointments. She could only
hope, brushing tangled bangs from his sleepy face, that there would be people who wiped the dirt from
his face, and helped him stand up once more after every defeat he experienced. Her sons would have
each other. She knew how much love the boy in her lap had for his brother; it was raw, unconditional
devotion, and she knew Alton was the same. She knew the Fergins and their daughter, Willa, and how
much they cared. She knew the brothers would be left in kind, faithful hands, and they would grow to
be incredible men. She knew she wouldn’t be around to see, to tell them how proud she was to be their
mother.
And so she hoped, hoped her sons would meet people who loved them with every bone in their
bodies. They would uplift their souls to the sky, yet be tender and stern when needed. She hoped
Nelson, wherever he was, would one day reunite with his children. And when he was ready to join her,
to tell her everything that happened while she was away.
“I’m sorry I have to leave you,” she whispered gently for the stagnant room to hear. Her hand
moved to calmly brush through his hair, untangling the desert gold cascading across her lap. He
crooned, and Marion wanted nothing more than to stop the world from spinning with her own bare
hands.
“I trust you,” she spoke. “And I hope one day, you’ll allow yourself to dream around those you
love. And I know whoever they are, they’ll love you just as much, Ellian.”