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[h_hollister]

A note is left on Ramon's pillow in Spain. There's a (oh man such a cliché) single long-stemmed red rose next to it, as well as a rectangular package wrapped in white and silver paper.

***

I'm not very good at this.
Poetry, I mean.
I've always called it trite
and rather silly
and yet I'm compelled, on occasion, to write it.
Words used for art
from someone who's artless.
I find my art in your smiles
and I find my art in your frowns
and I find my art in little things others might not
notice, like the small fleck of brown in your left eye
right next to your pupil.

I know my poem doesn't rhyme
or scan very well.
Some might call it the exact
opposite of poetry, with only line breaks to mark its ways.
I try to come up with
pretty words to mark yours, but find myself falling
short.
All my words, all my ways,
you steal them from me.
Take them
and give them back, breathless.

I tried to think of
another way to mark your birthday.
Something other than my grasping (gasping?) words
broken into small, manageable bites.

But all I had were my winded words,
so I use them and put them down on paper
to give to you.
I don't know what these words will do to you.
But I have some small hope you'll like them,
exhausted as they are.
Tired after a long day's work, running through my
head over and over, placing themselves in order
just for you.

So easy just to say
I love you
and be done. But there's a demand in my mind,
a demand to make my words yours so you don't have to
steal them
anymore.
So I share them with you, shyly and hopefully and comfortably tired.

Happy twenty-third birthday, Ramon Salazar.

Te amo.

...See, I can steal your words, too.

***

Inside the package is a red leather photo album, filled with rare color photos of Ramon's childhood. There are, sadly, several large, unfortunate gaps. The pictures jump from him at about age eight to age 21, when he first met Hippolyta. The entire back half of the album is them together, though, as if making up for the gap.

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[8th-castellan.livejournal.com]

When the rose, note, and package are spied, Ramon sits himself down on the bed, first and foremost. The rose is picked up, turned over, regarded, then carefully set back down next to him.

Onto the note.

It's read slowly, absorbing every word, every break. She's right, she's not terribly good at poetry. But her skill isn't where the impact lies.

He reads it again. His lips are moving now, murmuring the stanzas under his breath. Once he's done, Ramon sits for a time, digesting it all. Then the paper is folded carefully, delicately, the creases forgiving and gentle, and tucks it into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

Then onto the package. Fingers run over the sleek, red cover, wanting to take this in first before he moves onto what the actual content of it is. Then, with the crackling of the spine that accompanies opening a newer book, Ramon turns to the first page.

And he is greeted with the photograph of himself as an infant, asleep, dressed in a simple white linen swaddling, his tiny hands curled into tight baby fists. Next to that, a photo of his father holding him when he was so small.

The page after that, Ramon slightly older, the photo apparently capturing some of those first few uneasy baby steps. The page after that, Ramon playing in the snow, decked out in mittens, an oversized coat, and a woolen hat.

There are pictures of him practicing playing the violin with the firey concentration only a determined six-year old can accomplish. Another of him hugging his old butler, Immanuel. Playing chess with one of the servants who worked in the kitchen. Trying on his father's hat. Asleep in his father's lap.

Then the page turns and now it is indeed like a time-warp occurred. Thirteen years unaccounted for, because now it's of Hippolyta and Ramon together. Ramon, in several of them, often has that look of begrudging allowance or reluctance of those who don't like having their picture taken. Hippolyta's antics, happy grins, and silly faces make up for that, though. And there are a few where their happiness really shines through; where even Ramon could agree that their love needs to be captured on film.

The first few tears patter down onto the glossy pages of the photo album.