Blissful Mornings - Where the Blossoms and Arrows Meet
The morning unfolded like any other—
frangipanis falling soft upon the path,
threads left mid-stitch in the cottage,
a silence that hummed with more than stillness.
The unnamed child sat cross-legged near the swaddle cottage’s woven door,
sorting through fragments of fabric—
some stitched with seashells, others dyed with mango bark and memory.
Then—
a bark.
Joyful. Familiar.
She looked up as the dog came bounding toward her, tail spinning like a wind chime.
In his mouth: a ribbon.
One of Lani’s, fallen from the vase now perfumed with yesterday’s blossoms.
She laughed softly.
But before she could rise—
another figure appeared at the edge of the path.
The boy.
Marcus.
The one with sun-drenched hair and eyes that looked like questions still forming.
He paused when he saw her.
Not startled. Not bold.
Just… curious.
And behind him, the circle—Julia, Sonia, and Lani—had already gathered again.
A quiet morning tea.
A soft sorting of old letters and elder herbs.
Not a ritual, but not quite ordinary either.
The dog darted past the girl, straight through the door and into the cottage, circling the
women with delight.
Marcus remained at the threshold.
He didn’t speak.
He just stood there, his eyes resting on the swaddle that still bore the red arrow’s thread,
now gently surrounded by blossoms.
Something held him still.
The girl looked at him,
then at the women,
then back again.
No one told him to enter.
No one told him to leave.
But Lani, with a small smile, made space on the mat—
a gesture so simple, so sacred,
it needed no words.
Marcus stepped in.
And for the first time,
blossoms and arrows shared the same breath.
Marcus stepped in gently, unsure if he was interrupting something sacred. But Lani’s quiet
gesture—a space made on the mat—spoke louder than any invitation.
That single moment carried the weight of generations. How do you begin to share a lineage,
a land, a long-held grief and grace, when even the elders are still remembering their place
within it?
No one rushed to explain.
The unnamed child simply patted the woven mat beside her.
Marcus hesitated. He turned slightly to glance behind—no one. Just the curve of the trees,
the hush of distant waves.
But his dog had stayed. Luna. She had curled up comfortably atop one of the older blankets,
nose tucked, tail still, as if she had always belonged there.
The child smiled. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Luna,” he replied.
She nodded. “Do you know it means moon?”
Marcus blinked. “No… I didn’t. But thank you. I learned something new about my dog.”
The girl smiled softly, then added:
“The moon is our reverent source of light in the darkness of night. One that illuminates even
in our dreams… The new dreams and the familiar ones.”
Silence followed.
But it was not awkward. It was whole. It was the kind of silence that held the echo of stories
waiting to be spoken, when the time is right and the heart is ready.
The women said nothing.
They simply listened—as they had always done—when something important was being felt.
-Bliss Chains Authors
