801. the holding of hands

It wasn’t till we buried Grand that I noticed. I don’t even remember the day, but I was staring at his hand, his old veined paw, fingers naturally clawed. We weren’t doing anything. Only the sun sat with us on the back porch. Each of us lost in our own thoughts. Lost without the sound of plates and glasses from the kitchen. That song of union connecting the three of us. So we sat now, just Papa and I. We rocked. We watched the ocean. And I looked at his hand as if I was seeing it new, as one sees a lion in the wild or a person behind bars. From somewhere I heard a wind chime, of a breeze gently rolling sand over the nightly crab tracks, of how nothing stands still and of his hand now, alone, solitary, sedentary. His gaze was of something else, his eyes unreadable in their unblinking silence, and I wondered if he felt what I felt, had discovered what I knew now, or whether he had always known it, always known this day would come, a part of his life shared only with Grand, a world that only the two of them inhabited. A world seen by their smiles and hugs, and above all, by the holding of hands.

798. I love you

Zeke sat next to the bed as Grand slept. Sometimes just rocking, letting his mind wander over their years, as now, there would only be days. From time to time he walked to the bed and took her hand in his. Gently, rubbing her palm, his warmth becoming hers. She remained asleep, as quiet now as she was in life. A good life. Full of touches and looks, laughter and joy. Leaning down, he kissed her forehead, then her cheek. Her faint breath, barely a whisper. Her voice was that way too. In all their years, never a yell. Her tone, even now, as spring eternal.

He straightened her pillow and ran his fingers through her hair. She seemed to smile although it was hard to tell. She seemed to know he was there, as he said he would, that their union would be always, always held in love. Letting go of her hand, he pulled the covers up, kissed her cheek again before taking his seat, only this time, moving the chair a little closer.

When she had taken ill, he had begun a journal. Mainly, he documented his conversations to her as she slept, which was almost all the time. Late at night, when Kyra was safely tucked away and the house held but soft breath, he would read from the day’s entry. Sometimes he remained in his rocking chair and sometimes he would stand. Most of the pages were smeared. Emotion endless. The need to convey love, a love conveyed over decades, as urgent as their first days. So he wrote and read and cried. This was the routine. Day after day.

After several weeks, on a bright morning, for the bedroom faced the ocean and the window was always kept open, Grand squeezed his hand, opened her eyes and said, I love you. They kissed, her frail hand caressing his face as she had done so many times. Then she smiled again as her hand found rest and her eyes closed.

796. night at noon

Sometimes, he said, it is hard to remember the ground when you are flying. And when you are flying, everyone on the ground looks so very small. I swear the man said everything slant. I told him this. He smiled but didn’t say anything. So I told him again. I had stopped as we were walking the beach at Valla. I still remember his gray hair blowing with the sea breeze and his white tunic flapping against his broad chest when he turned. I remember too warm water rolling over my toes then back to sea, exhaling as I could not. My ears whistling like seashells held to the wind. He knew the language of my gestures, for he knelt and smiled and motioned. The slant beam is straighter than the straight one. This is what he said. Then he bounced me off his knee, held his arms out wide and said, We have all of this. No more talk.

Von nodded, his finger sawing his lower lip. His eyes looked like wells. My words a bucket, bringing forth into light what I always thought later should have been kept in the dark. I too had learned this language, the tone of a look, the typography of a cheek either rising or falling. I have regrets. Some of which I can’t explain. I just know I sat in my chair as he sat in his, neither of us moving, neither talking. I didn’t know of time then as I do now. I didn’t know of windows and how they open only briefly before forever closing. As Papa might have said, it is hard to know the night at noon.

788. not as now

In the woods lived a lady, known, it seemed, to Papa and I alone. We didn’t see her much in the summer when berries were plentiful, but in the winter, the path between her hut and Valla remained warm of our feet, the stones rubbed of snow, polished by our labors, through the wood, up the hill.

She lived alone. The food we brought, her only sustenance against the low sun and short days. She was about the same age as Papa and he had said they had known each other many years ago, for from the look in her eyes, she knew of no one any longer. Papa spoke of another time when what was tangled flowed over her shoulders like wine, and what was now yellowed in neglect, were as white as stars. She was then, he said, not as now.

When we walked that walk between the snow laden firs, and our hands strained with pot and pan, our backs with sacks of rice and grain, nut and berry, we did not speak. The sound of our labor, of breath neighing in the cold, of feet searching for traction, of backs silently aching of weight borne, this and this alone is the memory. Our prayer he said, although I suspected more in the way of penitence, for what was carried seemed more than necessary, more than vine and victual.

He said she had suffered. Her pain immeasurable. His advice sought. And given. Let go he had told her. Release judgment. Unattach from that which does not stop. Sit with the energy. Do not dam it or even try and direct it, but just sit, be.

So she did. Severed every relationship she had. Let everything she ever had go and walked into the woods. He spoke of it once and never more. But for as long as I can remember, every winter, we spoke with our feet. It was the only time I never saw him smile.

785. the universe is a lot older than you

Kyra: Papa, what do you want to do today?

Papa: Something new. Something different. Something I’ve never done before.

Kyra: Oooooh.

Papa: Our bodies grow old with time, but the mind is different. As long as we use it, challenge it, to our last breath, it will grow, expand, forever creating new neural pathways. It is, unlike the arm or leg, forever vibrant; but only as long as we water and sun the root and leaf.

_________

If there is a rhythm to the universe, you will know it not by effort, but the lack thereof. What is, is. Everything else, the unknown nightmare of illusion. And between the two, friction, pain. As one feels when holding desperately to a branch against the raging current. Let go, my dear one. Stop trying. The universe is a lot older than you. Trust it.

779. attention

ed note: conversation between Kyra and Von, on the porch of the cottage

Papa used to take me into the woods at night. We didn’t camp. Just a long walk to a clearing where we would sit in total darkness and I would see his face only by the light of stars. Sometimes we would talk and his voice, as too mine, sounded so very different wrapped in that darkness, where the voice was for you and only you, where the only thing happening was union, connection, of one person to another. In that cocoon of night, wrapped in the heavy cloak of hushed fir, there was no multi-tasking. No talking while performing some other task. No clock of a to-do list ticking away the words. No eyes looking over your shoulder to the door or upon the desk to paper. In that place, there was just him and me, a grandfather and a granddaughter, talking.

The voice is different in that environment. Sacred. The way voice is in the great cathedrals. On some nights, of cloud, there were no stars and when Papa turned out the light, you could not see your hand in front of your face. So we sat without sight, as if with the switching off of the lamp, we had switched off our eyes, becoming blind as bats. The voice then becomes everything. The darkness is absolute. And the feeling is of sea, adrift on the great ocean. And that voice, his voice, was my tether, my belay--the words, his words, washing over me like warm waves and I floated on his stories, his lessons, his ability to paint with the tongue. Those nights, just the two of us, of attention so purely devoted of one to the other, were, then and now, as fingers in the soul, gently caressing, nourishing, healing.

As you know, Papa was one to show, not tell. Yet, on those nights, from the outside looking in, with sight taken by utter night, one would think all he had was tell. (Long pause)

But all the talking wasn’t telling, was it? asked Von.

No. The talking had nothing to do with talking. The stories told on those nights have faded, some forgotten. The lesson wasn’t in the words. It was in the act. Using the darkness to connect not person to person or grandparent to grandchild, but heart to heart and soul to soul. The power of that connection, of pure unadulterated attention paid and given, was as communion solemn, of grace bestowed, of love flowing as love can only flow as if when we sat, our two energies begin to flow, circular, from opposite directions. And at some point in the night, the circle connected and where there were two energies before, now, only one. I think he knew this. I think he knew exactly what he was doing. And you know what?

What?

It didn’t have a damn thing to do with what was said.

684. perhaps it was

To talk of it is to be beside it, to speak of the ocean rather than swim the water. And those that speak of these things, speak from the shore, they speak from the mind, from the distance of this and that, here and there, of the apple held, not eaten. This is what Papa said.

But--

Shhhhhh. No talking.

So we sat. And I imagine how a strange sight it must have been to Grand, to look upon the beach and to see the two of us sitting, rounded backs and elbows perched on bent knees. I remember the wind in my hair and the sand between my toes, the glittering ocean and the warm lapping water tickling my feet as if a game of touch. The longer we sat, and he must have known this, but the longer we sat without speaking, as sun accumulated upon our faces, as birds came and went of wing and foot, as the waters opened and dolphins leaped before healing back into memory, even as the sun's arc ticked passed noon, he must have known I would settle as sediment in a jar, that my waters would clear, that I would see as if I were the ocean and that then I would know, the experience broken on the waves of Grand's voice, the experience beyond, as he had said, words, that I would know as we walked up the path, back to the Villa, to lunch prepared. I think it was his smile and the way he held his hands behind his back and walked with his head down, just smiling; and I felt a warmth as if that smile were the sun and I thought, perhaps it was.

682. thoughts upon the day

ed note: Kyra's notes on the day of departure. Believed to have been written within the first days on Bravo.


I looked upon his eyes and they looked larger, bluer, still as a morning lake.

Pale grey eyes to match the rain, the sky, the withering of my heart.

His hands, too, felt larger as he held my shoulders, taking measure as if a clothier, a tailor who sees as a painter sees.

The day was cold, a steel rain and my feet became wet, numb, planted on the deck of the dock, wanting to root to this place where before my eyes was all I knew of love, of all that had breathed life into me.

He seemed, eye and skin, as some patriarchal elephant, majestic folds of skin, of eyes that held me fixed, of movement deliberate, tracing my features as I did his, as two taking the mask of memory.

All round were others, each lost in their own partings, tears in concert with the rain, arms reaching forth as sun to the branch as branch to sun as the ripe fruit mature for that moment known, forever known to come, to fall, this silent hammer, to fall beyond the ear, even beyond the eye.

His lips came to my cheek and I thought of Grand, of the times they must have embraced, of the love they shared for so many years and the love, perhaps, soon, they would share again; and in this moment, less than but a second it seems now, I felt a sinking, a molting, of what, I could not say other than if, if with a wave of hand, the vessel upon my back could depart to my eye upon it, wave my hand would wave and drive we would the path we drove, this wretched day, this horrid occasion, the sunder of the unseen.

We stood, our breath rolling forth, his, then mine, one, then, the other and I felt a spinning, is if on a merry-go-round, rising and falling, spinning round to the love in a smile, of a grandfather's joy, to the postcard of memory no time could touch.

As his thumbs wiped the tears, there again, as before the fireflies, as on those summer beaches, that warmth, again and as if to do only what I could my eyes released what my tongue could not and he, standing as he always stood, standing as the mountain in winter, absorbed my pouring forth, took as vase to flower, of cup to tea, of me, as before, as now, as I would always remember.

He pulled me as one pulls breath, within, dissolving my resistance into him and chest to chest we were as the ocean, as before Valla, the gentle rising, the warmth of sun, upon cheek, of waters alive in the palette of blue and silver, of laughter and giggles, of being held in his hands, his love; as if he knew, this day, today, would come.

Round my hooded head, as so many times before, his elbow held me as the trees of Valla did so many years before, as I watched him upon the deck, painting, arms wide, of Grand sitting, watching, just watching him, the two of them, some dance in the painting, the sitting, together. I could not then, as now I cannot explain it. How they did it. How even in just this scene, this moment, how the two of them danced in the tilt of a head, the lilt of a voice, the angle of an arm raised, of the quiet watching, as if together they breathed.

681. of beginnings

ed note: if the Story of Kyra were to have a beginning, it might look something like this:

I was leaving. He was not.

He, my grandfather, in white tunic and silver hair, produced an envelope. A single ticket. He stood on one side of the table, myself, on the other. The distance could have been a continent in what was not said, what no words would, could address before our silent eyes, of all that his upheld arm meant. The air itself seemed to thicken and our humid eyes held more than the sight before us, of the distance that was to come between us. When was all I could manage. Tomorrow he said.

We drove to the dock in the silence that precedes a parting, of a leaving, of a decision made not to be unmade. I was leaving. He was not. So we sat, each in our own world, the slate rain blurring the day as events had muddied our paths. He would stay behind. I would go. There was no other way. I always thought I would speak upon his day and lay him in the ground, the floor mine to say my peace, to send him beyond with the mind and heart he had so carefully cultivated. But this was not that. We would part with eyes open and arms that could still grasp and hearts that would know the eternal release of a warm embrace. And of minds that would forever not know the last nor comfort with word and hand those final days. We would say goodbye, standing toe to toe, eyes wide open, wet as rain.

Our planet, Hyneria, was dying, crying storm upon storm, wailing leaf from limb, rending trunk from root and, in this case, separating a granddaughter from her grandfather. He was old he said. Had lived his life. So he would give me the only thing he could now--a chance, to have what he had, a chance to live beyond the rising waters of this world. A chance he said, to begin without burden, to fulfill the promise of my gifts, to seed the generations to come. I cared not a wit for this future. The price too high. The uncertainty too great. My self-doubt, perhaps, too overwhelming.

This is how we drove to the dock. Papa and I in the front seat, Goldie and Blu, our mechanicals, in the rear. My own parents were somewhere, somewhere not here. They had married the climate, their research, stood, I imagined, proudly upon their labors, their proposals, fighting, probably, some lost battle even upon this day. But they were not here, as they had not been, here, for quite some time. And what they looked like were more photographic than memory, more imagination and campfire story than hug and kiss and eyes of witnessed joy and celebration. After my sister died, and their research started receiving attention, I rarely saw them.

We arrived, the scene as some horrid carnival. Everywhere were others. And vessels neighing at moor of all shapes and hues, sizes and makes. A great exodus. At least for some. Like an ocean liner with too few lifeboats, Hyneria did not have enough vessels to evacuate everyone and those that were fortunate enough to be leaving were leaving with no plan, no destination, and perhaps no hope of doing anything but changing time and place, of dying elsewhere. I did not want to go. If I were to die, I wanted to die at home, with my grandfather, at Valla. But this was not his wish. He had given me everything. I could think of no way to deny him; and, I suppose, in hindsight, I knew I couldn't.

My name is Kyra and what follows is a retelling of events before and after that day at the dock when I said goodbye to Papa and to everything I ever knew.

______

Related Chapter: 166. Home, Blu

645. A Good Story

"Papa, what are you doing?" asked Kyra.

"Counting money," replied Papa as he stacked one bill upon the next, the stack growing quite large upon his desk. "I'm trying to see if we have enough."

"For what?"

"For all the smiles you've given me."

"And do you?" asked Kyra, twirling her impish hair, looking almost ghostly in her white floor length nite-gown.

Papa shook his head. "There is no amount of money I would trade for what you've given me."

"Then why count the money?"

"Show, my girl. Not tell. You know how I teach," said Papa with a wink.

"I see. Well then, can I trade two smiles for one bedtime story?"

"Race you there."

Grand saw the blur of child and husband, laughing and giggling up the stairs, her eyes wet in the joy shared, the joy multiplied from their hearts to hers.

__________

Von approached the bridge and spied a solitary figure sitting, smiling, her long melanic hair catching starlight in shades blue. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all Von," said Kyra. "I could use the company. And a good story if you've got one."

601. Seven Times

Von excused himself. Looking into the bathroom mirror he noticed one wiry gray beard hair out of place. Carefully taking a small pair of scissors, he clipped the hair. With a tiny comb, he raked his face back into perfect zen garden rows of gray and black. Placing scissors and comb back in their respective places, he gently closed the mirror, checked his face one more time and, satisfied everything was in order, returned.

Kyra reached across the table putting her hand on top of Von’s. “I didn’t know. Von, I’m so sorry. I can’t begin to imagine.”

Von smiled, the kind of smile beget in pain, of a path now revealed, that in the revealing, must now be walked. “There is more.”

“Von, you don’t--”

“No. If I don’t speak now, I may never speak of it again and, quite frankly, my shoulders are old and tired and the thought of sharing my burden is a comfort I hope, perhaps, you will indulge. Be my confessor Kyra. I need redemption in living eyes, not the cold dark of night, the taunting silence of one way conversations. I’ve had my share. I find them lacking.”

Kyra’s grip tightened on Von’s veined hand. It felt cold. “Yes. By all means. Please. Continue.” Her head tilted in the feminine way, the mane of her pitch black hair as curtain, her face as no face and every face.

“What I’m about to tell you I know in part from my own memory and in part from the records released with my freedom. The Javalinas were nothing if not thorough in their documentation.” Von paused. “Please don’t judge me for what I’m about to say.”

“One day," replied Kyra, "I will ask the same. Please. You have me, my heart and my ears. Say what you need to say. We'll leave judgement to Janus.”

“Okay. Once I had refused to divulge more information, information that I remind you I didn’t have, they called my bluff. You with me so far?”

“Got it.”

“Fair enough. Now this is where I need you. They didn’t just erase all memory of Cerulean in one fell swoop. I mean, what would have been the sense of that other than just pure hatred. Not to say the Javalinas were not capable of senseless hatred, but interrogators were a different breed, a higher order, so to speak. So, what they did was erase a few memories, starting with his birth. They took his birth from my memory.” Von’s cheeks trembled, quaked in little quakes, quivered as the dim light caught the creases like moonlight catches a shimmering ocean. “Without an ounce of compassion, the bastards took his birth. You with me?”

“Yes.”

Von straightened his spine and leaned his head back. Light caught the glossy lower rims of his bloodshot eyes. “So, then, they bring me back. Start asking me questions about the day Cerulean was born. I can’t answer. My mind raced. I felt like one feels when something is on the tip of the tongue. I could smell the memory, but, the memory itself was gone. Still, I thought, this is some sort of trick, that I am somehow being deceived, that maybe, just perhaps, my interrogator is my superior. At least these are the games I play in my own mind, some sort of self preservation reflex otherwise known as denial. Well, the questions come again. I deny I know anything. The threat is leveled, again. If I don’t give them the information they want, they will take his childhood. What say you.” Von pulled his hand away from Kyra’s and with balled fist, pounded the table, “What. Say. You.”

Von paused as his eyes stared into Kyra’s. She covered his fist with her hand and in gentle strokes massaged his hand open. “Keep going.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“No.”

“Damn you. Do it!”

“I told them Damn you to hell. And I added a couple Frail You's for good measure. Do you understand? We weren’t talking a gamble. We weren’t talking about bluffing or a game or anything else. I knew they could do it. Mental gymnastics aside. I knew. I frailing knew. I knew they could take his childhood as surely as they had taken his birth. I knew it.” His voice faded into the blackness of the room, “I knew it as surely as if they were taking my finger, one knuckle at a time.”

“But you said you had nothing else to give them?”

“I had nothing they wanted. But I could have given them something. I could have made something up. I could have lied. I could have thrown myself on their mercy. Prostrated myself. Anything. Do you understand? Anything. But I did nothing.”

Kyra sighed.

“I know from the official records this scene was repeated seven times. They divided his life into seven. That’s what he was to them, his life. And seven times I denied them. And seven times I denied my son.”

Standing, Kyra opened her arms and pulled Von tight. She said nothing. Just holding.

“What do you say when your son says he understands but you know he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I was given the choice. Doesn’t know I was given the choice seven times. What do you say to that.”

Kyra squeezed tight, her leather squeaking in the stillness of tremulous breath. “I hope you’re not expecting words from me?”

“No, but you know what is funny?”

“What?”

“I’m only here because I was meant to protect you.”

“I’m not so sure it’s that simple.”

Von started to respond but stopped. “Do you hear that?”

Kyra pulled from the embrace, “What?”

“That sound, do you not hear it?” said Von, his voice rising. “How could you not hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“Someone is crying.”

“What? Who?”

“A baby.”

Kyra looked at Von, their faces frozen in the strobe of recognition.

________

“Zeke, transmission incoming.”

Von was coming home. But there were "complications."

“Get Ceru here. Now.”

“Sir, he is out of the region.”

“I don’t care where he is.”

“Yes sir.”

“And by Janus, don’t say a damn word about his father.”

“Yes sir.”

“One more thing.”

“Sir?”

“I want no one else there.”

“Protocol?”

“Protocol is a tool. One we don’t need in this circumstance. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

589. No More, No Less

"Papa, if you could go back in time to when you were my age, what do you know now that you wish you had known then?" asked Kyra.

Papa smiled. "I wish I had been wise enough to ask the question."

"I'm serious."

"I am too."

After a slight pause, Kyra added, "So you're not going to tell me?"

"There is nothing I could say that would be greater or wiser than the mere asking of the question, unabated. I could give you a few answers that might make sense to me and my life, but probably would be of little value to you and yours."

"I see. So you could but you won't."

Papa laughed. "Come here." Papa pointed to the kitchen window where Grand was washing the morning dishes. "Tell me what you see."

"Grand washing dishes."

"Keep looking."

Kyra looked at Papa and then back at the window. "Well, she's still washing dishes, just like she does every morning."

"True enough, but look deeper."

"OK." Kyra looked on for a few more minutes. "I give up. What is it you want me to see?"

"Look at her face. How does it look?"

"Like it always does."

"Describe it for me."

"Rosy cheeks, brown hair--"

"Deeper."

"What does deeper mean?"

"Look again. Think beyond the physical characteristics. What do you see?"

Kyra looked again. After a short period, long enough to give the impression she had been thinking, she said, "She's just washing dishes Papa. No more, no less."

Papa smiled. "That's it."

"What's it?"

"What I would tell myself, if I could go back in time."

552. Important and Urgent

Wearing his customary pristine white tunic, hair disheveled in a turbulent sea of grey swells and shimmering whitecaps, face warm bronze to match hands aged and weathered in the love of all things outdoors, shoulders symmetrically sloped displaying the strength and beauty of mountains in winter, Zeke listened with the patience of the sparkling ocean that glittered before his pale blue eyes. He leaned back, wooden chair kissing wooden desk like timid children out of teacher's sight, while the voice on the other end of the line spoke of matters important and urgent.

Questions sat, not asked. Just talking and listening. What the hellocks could be said that had not already been said? Words had been poured forth from father to son as water to stone. Familiarity bred not contempt, but accepted weariness, the kind of weariness that existed between husband and wife in the morning when love was a memory long faded and questions of endearment no longer offered nor expected. So the questions just sat, unopened, ignored, gifts forever unknown.

When the call ended, Zeke stood, drawing breath of brass and bergamot, wood old and leather worn; his hands held behind his back, softly, one into the other, fist into palm like ball into glove. He looked upon the waters of Valla as if in the looking a sign or signal would appear, and he could take his hands and do something. To do something to hold at bay thoughts of what had been done and, thoughts be damned, what had not. Take what you want, then pay for it. Is that how it is? Reluctant, with belly full, to pay for the meal. Blame the cook need only a mirror.

His son had succeeded, at work. Won prestigious awards, stood in the world on his own merits, had married and had two beautiful children, Kyra and Emily. Something changed when Emily died. He withdrew. Episodic bursts of anger as unpredictable as infrequent. His wife looked on with dead eyes, leaden tongue, their marriage held together by professional ambition; and the storm.

They had chosen Emily over Kyra, second born over first. Had taken her with them on their travels. Said that Kyra's schooling was the reason she was left behind. Damn the lies, the pretense. Parents tended to favor one child over the other, but the art of parenting was never to let either child know which was which. Perhaps he succeeded. Kyra never questioned or if she did, never gave voice to the doubt. Yet, still, the child seemed, at times, melancholy beyond her summers. What do we ever really know of the inner life of another, forever sifting clues and forming assumptions, drawing conclusions, forgetting that what we know pales in comparison to what we don't.

The call talked of things important and urgent. The planet was in peril. Changes had to happen now. Those in power were in denial. Zeke listened. Not once was the question asked. How is Kyra?

__________

A few years earlier . . .

"Papa," asked Kyra, "why are you crying?"

"When I see you, I see the most beautiful thing in the whole world and the joy from my heart expresses itself through my eyes."

"Is that why Grand is crying too?"

Papa looked over his shoulder, his beautiful bride leaning against the worn door frame, her hand wiping her nose. "Yes, Kyra," she said.

"Can I cry too?"


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540. Fugled

A few years later . . .


"Thoughts are tools Kyra," said Papa. "As are words. Learn to wield them," added Papa, making the motion of a whip above his shoulder, "skillfully, and the sea will bow before your brow and the sun will rise for your pleasure."

Kyra listened, her visage not of her age.

"Likewise, saddle the twin horses of pride and greed, and as the sun rises it will set and upon your heart will fall a darkness no hynerian can escape." Papa stood, his back to the rising sun, his head aflame in haloed light. "Now, listen very closely." Papa's tone turned from thunder to drizzle, a whisper pulling his precocious one to her toes. "There are two questions you should never allow far from your sight." He paused as a magician before the hat.

Kyra drew breath as one emerging from the sea, as if from his essence she could absorb every nuance of the teaching. Consciously, she eased back on her heels.

Papa tilted his head, and assured of his pupil's raptness, launched like lightning a snap of his fingers, a fire in the eye and said, "Question one: What are you running from?" Then, seeming to climb into the sky itself without leaving the ground, his knees moving forth with a power and grace, he continued. "This question, will hide like a shadow in the night. You must, must, hunt it down, every day."

Her eyes grew wide, round, resolute as steel upon the hammer. Still, she said nothing, allowing the wind to rustle as stagehands in the hush.

"Question two: What are you running toward?" Papa stopped, the sudden lack of histrionics more deafening than a thunderclap. The two stood, nose to nose, neither moving, the air charged.

"And when I ask those questions," said Kyra, "I will know that what moves is an illusion."

"Yes."

"And this is why you sit."

Papa smiled, extending his hands. Kyra curtsied, taking his hands. From the window, Grandma Kyra watched a dance of smiles. Leaning from the window, she said, "If you don't move, you don't eat. Dinner's ready."

Leaning over, Papa whispered, "There is one thing I know that moves."

"Your stomach?"

Papa laughed. "Besides that."

"What?"

His face tranquilled like the setting sun, the wrinkles of his brow disappearing as waves in the evening calm. "My heart. Whenever I see your grandmother."

538. A Ball and a Room

"Papa," asked Kyra, "why do you sit like that so much?"

Slowly opening his eyes papa smiled. "When you get my age, everything hurts. Sometimes it just feels good to do nothing."

"So there would be no reason for me to sit like that too." Kyra took her young finger and corkscrewed it into her cheek.

Papa erupted in laughter. "Come sit here with me."

"Is this show or tell, because you know how I feel about that."

"I do. So how about if I propose a compromise and we do a little of both, not too much of either, but, maybe, if you listen and watch really closely, just the right amount of both?"

Kyra tilted her head as she anchored her hands to her waist. "Okay, but I'm gonna be watching you real close," she said holding two fingers slightly apart and squinting her eyes.

"Deal. Now come over here. Do you remember me telling you about 'this' and 'that?'"

"Yes, papa."

"Well, I want to take that conversation a little further down the beach." Papa pulled a small coin from his pocket. He moved it from right to left, Kyra watching as if he were a magician and she was going to spot the trick. "Did the coin move?"

"Of course it did."

"How do you know?"

"I saw it."

"Exactly."

"Papa. Let's move to tell real fast."

"Okay. If the coin is "this" and you are "that" then we create the illusion of movement."

"I don't understand."

"Few do. And in time, you will. For now, since we are 'telling,' I'll tell you this. Movement is a function of two things. If I move, it is only in relation to something else. You see, if I'm walking down the beach, I know I am moving because I can see the trees I pass, the sand under my feet, our villa getting smaller, so on and so on. You see?"

"No."

"Okay. Let me put it this way. What if there was a room and that room had no walls and no air. In fact, let's pretend that that room only had a ball and nothing else. Could that ball move?"

"I think so. It could roll. It could bounce. Papa, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because I love you. Now listen closely. In order to bounce, or roll, or float, wouldn't our ball need a floor, or a wall, or air, or something other than itself? You see, movement only exists as relation. And relation implies two things. Like the coin and you. The coin needed 'you' to move."

"Papa, what is it you are trying to tell me?"

"Why I sit. You asked, didn't you?" Papa corkscrewed his finger into his cheek.

"Okay, okay."

"Now. I want you to think about this question. What if all the world, all the universe, everything there is, is just one thing?"

"Well, then you wouldn't be you and I wouldn't be me and we wouldn't be having this conversation. Now stand up. Give me your hands. The sun is going to set soon and I want to show it my new dance moves."

517. Theandric

"Grand, what is papa doing?" asked Kyra, her wide eyes locked on the ocean-facing deck.

Grand looked out the window and smiled. The hynerian she had fallen in love with many years ago still had it. His movements flowed as an easy breeze; a grace typically unknown in the male; a strength hidden in seamless elegance.

"Grand? Is he dancing?"

Reaching down, grand picked Kyra up and placed her on the counter. Placing her chin on Kyra's shoulder, together they looked. "I believe he is," she whispered.

"Why is he dancing all alone? Is papa okay?" Kyra whispered back.

"Oh, I think he is more than okay. Look just to his left. Above. Watch those birds."

A few feet above papa's head she spied a bevy of white birds, wings extended, appearing to float with the gentle undulations of a boat on the ocean. One by one they dipped, rolled and circled around, weaving in choreographed unison to the magnificent twirling figure below in the pristine white tunic. His hands seemed to have no beginning or end, a movement both circular and elliptical without being either, neither fast nor slow, splendidly hypnotic. Kyra watched, her tongue captive, her lips forming the shape of an un-uttered wow.

Papa moved from toe to finger as the wave unrolls upon the beach, a singular movement of flow more similar to melody than dance. The birds, evenly spaced, silent as the wind, formed a circle above his silver mane. Reaching upward, body and tunic a font of translucent morning light, finger tips blinding with the brilliance of ten discrete sunrises, diamond hair coruscating. Trees hushed and shrubbery kneeled; stones solemn spoke not in a breeze twirling as ribbons upon the banner of the day.

"Would you like to join him?"

Kyra nodded.

"Go."

Kyra ran. Papa turned and with a serpentine twisting of arms he leveraged her momentum and without flesh touching, catapulted her small frame into the air above his head. The snowy birds haloed her black tresses. Papa lowered his arms. Kyra, held aloft as if in flight reached out and upon each palm a golden egg of energy appeared and the eyes of the birds shone from a source unknown. With a nod of his head, the birds circled downward and Kyra, in suite, glided back to the deck. "Papa, how did you do that?"

"I didn't. We did."

"How?"

"You believed. And when you believe, when your heart is but a vessel for the greater Love, unfiltered in the dross of life, then, my dear, you and I, we, together, can do magnificent things. Now hug me."

Grand watched. Her eyes as a lake after a hard rain, brimming with love, reflective of the love before her eyes, the love of a grandfather for his granddaughter.

493. Storms of Dislike

Papa and Kyra were on the third day of a week long camping trip. Standing before the lake of eternal wisdom, they watched as a storm rolled over the mountains.

"Papa, perhaps we should leave."

"We could," he said, continuing to watch the sky in the distance.

"Well, don't you think we should start packing?"

"If you think we should go." Again, Papa stood without moving, his shoulders relaxed and his eyes clear, watching.

"I don't like storms. I think we should."

Papa remained still.

"Papa? You're not moving. You don't like storms, do you?"

"I suppose its not a matter of liking or not liking. Storms are. They perfectly are. Nothing added. Nothing subtracted. Just a beautifully perfect expression of nature. Here, come stand with me. Now open your arms, palms upward and turn your face to the sky. Feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"That cool breeze. Nature's calling card. And you know what?"

"What?"

"You only ever feel that breeze before a storm."

"Okay."

"Kyra, many never feel that breeze." Papa knelt down and took Kyra's hand. Her large round eyes opened to his, each reflected in the other. "I never want you to miss that breeze, to miss the harmony of the universe, to resist what is."

Kyra's eyes held wide without blinking. Rain, soft drops, begin to fall. "How do I know I'm going to miss something?"

Papa smiled. "Whenever you use the word like or dislike."

-----------

The servitor approached Kyra and hummed in position until she opened her eyes. "The Hood will see you now. Please follow me."

492. Spring

Zeke rubbed the sleep from his clear grey eyes and with hands mindful, almost prayful, opened the ocean front window in the master bedroom as he had done a thousand times before. Light poured forth warming wood and face with hues of yellow and orange as the clear translucent teal waves gently laid sparkling lace upon the whey beach with the practiced grace of a thousand years; an act performed for neither eye nor ear, beast nor man, seeking no reward save expression. A breeze sensual, messenger of flowers and trees alike, combed his silver locks with gentle fragrant fingers and taking breath he honored the gift with a moment uninterrupted. From a distance both near and far, birds chripped playful morning notes, flirting from tree to tree, weaving the day with threads of joy. The bright ocean sung a song for his soul as if sound itself could cleanse the weight of the unseen and he took another breath as one takes the guilty pleasure of candy from a platter. The villa was quiet, with the exception of Blu. Today he would walk, barefoot, upon the carpet of nature, the world as his orchestra, the sun as his beacon.

491. Late

She sat in her hopper as a sack of grain sits in a wagon

Tears falling like the rain outside

The grey underbelly of the sky opened and closed

Windshield or eyes or both turned the world Monet

Steady rain sounded like static

Her heart thumped in her chest and her neck felt tight and her nose ran of its own

Images moved on the wet dock like the internal pieces of a clock

The sign flashed: Bravo-Four-Zero--Departed

486. Girl

Scene: Morning of Trev's departure. Girl sits at table, letter open, warm snizzle turning cold. Her mother stands at the sink washing the morning dishes.


Mother: You going?

Girl: No, I don't think so.

Mother: I think you should.

Girl: Yeah, well, I don't see the point.

Mother: What does he say in the letter?

Girl: Same as always. Loves me to the end of hyneria and all the rest.

Mother: I meant about today. What did he say?

Girl: Wants to see me. Last time, something he wants to say.

Mother: You should go.

Girl: Why?

Mother: He loves you.

Girl: He has a strange way of showing it.

Mother: He's young.

Girl: He's strange.

Mother: I still think you should go.

Girl: I don't love him. And even if I did, what would it matter. He's got a ticket, not me. It's not like he is inviting me to go with him.

Mother: Go for me.

Girl: What does that mean? For you?

Mother: He will kiss you.

Girl: Yeah?

Mother: Have you ever been kissed by someone who loves you? Kissed for the very last time? Kissed not to be kissed, but kissed in the moment in the wish that it was eternity? He will kiss you like that. And you know what, I want to hear about it. I want you to come back and tell me what that was like. I want to know what it is like to be looked at with those eyes, to be held in those arms, to have his soul pressed against yours and to feel lips against yours that tremble with things said and unsaid.

Girl: I don't see the point.

Mother: The point is, everything is not always about you.