G - Lapse in Thyme

It always came feet first, the soil colliding with itself,
rebounding only to impact again, the thunder filtering through. Most
believed it to be slow poke sound, trailing fleeter lightening in the
air. Thyme knew better.

Not a solitary car or truck had slowed, let alone stopped with the
offer of a hitch. At her mother's insistence, they had set out
immediately on foot. That had been over five hours ago. Less than half
an hour before, the paper lantern had dropped over the sun, softening
the light, while prickling her exposed arms and legs.

"A storm is coming." she said, her voice flat.

"Can you even think of something positive?" her father had snapped. Her
mother's hand on her elbow finished the exchange.

If he'd be positive, she could. But truth didn't change, and neither
would he. It soaked him, screamed at her. Mixed with hte pull that was
her mother, Thyme was bogged down, and she couldn't cut her way loose.
Before, she focused on something else, something inanimate, and the
truth would slide away. It didn't work anymore.

As the thunder crept up her legs, she walked closer to her mother's
side, seeking shelter unaware. The soft, warm arm settling around her
shoulders sent a chill down to meet the sound in her stomach, and tears
leaked from fixed eyes. Contact intensified the pain that was her
mother. Thyme drowned in it, no room left for her.

Thyme resurfaced in her own bed, some soft flute music drifting over
her. She was in the house; he was not. Moving to get out of bed, time
stiffened muscles complained. Moving carefully, she made her way down
the hall and into the living room, her mother cross-legged on the
floor, back turned to Thyme.

"Mama . . ."

It took a few minutes to untangle the knot her mother made of herself
as she stood and spun round in the same motion.

"How long have you been awake, sweetheart?"

"Just a few minutes. I don't remember . . ."

Cutting her off again, her mother replied, "No, the doctor didn't think
you would. Mild heat stroke and exhaustion will do wipe the memory
clean."

"Something happened at the festival, Mom."

"I know it was hard for you, being left alone and all. I'm sorry, dear;
I never should have agreed."

"Mom, please, I need help."

The child stood, head drooping, eyes on the carpet. Sharon's breathe
caught in her throat. "How can I help?" she asked quietly.

Thyme moved to the couch, and her mother curled around her, while she
did what she had never done, trusted. She told her mother about before,
about the eclipse, about after.

The next morning's trip to the metaphysical bookstore began the search
for a way to restore control of her gift.