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“E lei no au i ko aloha” or “I will wear your love as a wreath,” meaning “I will cherish your love as a beautiful adornment.”
In the desert of southern Utah, tall gray pillars meet a star-spangled sky. Canyons that were once bright oranges and red now glow an endless plum. Their colors echo a distant past, and so sits a spirit perched upon his throne, in the center of it.
He sits, a reverberation of what surrounds him, uncertain at times whether he is merely another manifestation of will or truly what was once a human shape. And a little girl emerges from her bedroom, which is primarily made up of those white dwarfs, red giants, and quasars that so frequently light up the Utah night.
Her shaky hands guide her down the concrete steps, and a small, pink nightgown hangs from her narrow shoulders.
The spirit senses her and shifts immediately. It only takes a single look to read her soul. A sensation punctures his chest, as he not just deciphers– but experiences the emotion with her. He recognizes fear, sorrow, and pain–all emotions that have earned no place in his sacred temple, and certainly not inside his dear niece.
“Helen, what’s wrong?” He asks softly, “You should be asleep.”
“Uncle Hal ,” her eyes bear into his, and her lips pout out as she speaks, “I had a bad dream.”
The spirit frowns, in reflection of her own. But his temple has no room for pain, so he smiles, hoping she will reflect him the same. “There is no danger here,” he assures.
And though the girl believes this, it doesn’t seem to get to the root of the issue. And though Hal can sense her next words, the dread of them still weighs heavy.
“My mom used to sleep with me when I had a bad dream…My dad would make me warm milk.”
Hal shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His chest pounds. Of course. Of course, how is a child meant to handle all of this without her parents?
Hal stops himself. Another feeling builds in his chest. He does not name it.
Helen had lived in the temple for a week, and he had scarcely seen her.
He’d blamed it on his responsibilities as The Spectre, which devoured his time with one crisis after another.
No, that wasn’t why.
He couldn’t face her. Or more accurately, those familiar features staring up at him, reminding him of how much they had lost. He couldn’t face the death of his brother and sister-in-law,
What was he worth, as an all-powerful being, if he couldn’t even console his own niece? The price of his cowardness– it was Helen who was paying. While Hal was unable to bear the pain of his late family, she did, and she did it nearly entirely on her own.
No more. Not if Hal could help it.
He should have realized this much sooner: death does not arrive when the holder is ready. Grief is an all-consuming emotion, yet it is what propels change, mourns, and completes it. And isn't that what Hal lives on—constant change and challenge? The Spectre had no power over his family's demise, but Hal could control his reaction to it. He had shown others the road of love, revenge, and hope. He could do the same with Helen. He could do the same for himself.
Hal stands from his throne and reaches his hand to the girl. In another hand, he holds a warm glass of milk. Helen blinks, wondering if it had always been there. She smiles, grabbing onto the spirit. Hal guides her back to her room.
Helen crawls onto the bed, although to Hal, it looks as if she’s swimming. She’s so tiny, he’s worried it’s a possibility she’ll drown in the covers she swallows herself in.
Hal makes room for himself, scooting next to the girl.
“Would you like to continue reading Narnia?” He asks. Helen moves to cling to his arm. She shakes her head.
“We could read The Wizard of Oz,” he tries again.
“I think…I just want to be here with you, uncle Hal.”
Hal blinks, put off by the request. It’s not something he’s used to–just being still. He tenses, breathes in, and then lets go. It doesn’t matter if it’s new. He’ll push past his awkwardness to be there for Helen.
“Of course,” he nods.
A moment passes by of clear, all-consuming quiet. Hal isn’t sure how long it’s been since a moment of peace like this. Helen buries her head in the space between his armpit, and Hal lets his head rest on hers. He brings his other hand over her body and squeezes her into a tight hug.
“You should sing a lullaby,” Helen speaks into his torso, muffled.
Hal frowns, shoulders raising. “Oh, I don’t–”
“Pleaseee?”
“Well…alright,” he nods. The Spectre racks his brain for a song, although the only one he can seem to remember, of all the songs in the universe he’s aware of, is Wonderwall. “…any requests?”
Helen nods, “My mom used to sing Amazing Grace to me every night.”
“Okay then.” He can do Amazing Grace. He clears his throat, “ Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch– ” his voice cracks, and Jordan pauses in fear.
Helen breaks out into giggles. “You’re really bad.”
Hal can’t stifle his own laugh. He really is a terrible singer, just like his mother. “ I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now... ” Hal stops, realizing he’d run out of lyrics. He frowns, “I don’t know the rest. I’m sorry, Helen.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Helen suggests.
“Straight for the heart, huh?” Hal laughs, and his hands move to attack, as he barades her with tickles.
“Hey stop!” she giggles, pushing him off. Hal’s heart pangs, because she’s smiling, and he’s the one who put that smile there. His chest is beating so hard, swelling with pride. He’s decided. He will take this joy as a trophy, and he will do everything he can to keep that smile on her face.
He will cherish this love as a wreath, and he will wear it like a beautiful adornment. Hal will not back down from love again. He will be there for Helen, no matter what.