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CHAPTER TEN; constellation song ( ZAFIRA )
MAY, 2022
I AM A MOSAIC of every moment leading up to this.
I am the sound of gentle waters warping around me, on my first trip to the beach. I am the weight of the first butterfly that landed on my finger, that steadfast flow into my heart. I am the first cries of adolescence, spilled over sleepless nights and discarded math homework. I am my father's daughter. I am his soft spoken intelligence, his soft smirk when he's about to correct someone. I am my mother's child. I am her long brown hair, her quiet persistence. I am tiny little pieces of the past, the present, and the future, all glued and stuck together in a messy splay of colors.
Golden light spills from the sky, painting the field in front of me a light shade of yellow. The air is warm and the first drops of summer splatter against my skin.
My hand brushes my father's headstone and, at the action, I feel myself sink to my knees right in front of it.
My mother's grip on my shoulder tightens.
One year, I sigh. A whole year.
Time has passed both so quickly and so slowly; it's hard to keep track of what is past and what is now.
Still, every day since my father has been gone has been a steady climb downward.
I've fought the flames as much as I could, but who am I kidding, I'll never be strong enough to extinguish it.
My mother sighs above me, her hands kneading the space between my shoulder and neck. "I miss him," she whispers.
"I know," I reply, my voice hoarse. "I miss him, too."
There are tears stinging my eyes and I know my expression mirrors my mother's, but I fight desperately to blink them away.
My focus goes to his intricate headstone, to the beautiful engraved designs. There are little stars and ringed-planets crowning the rock, flowing over his name. I know if he were here he would laugh and point out how cliché it is, but, deep down, he secretly would've loved it.
I brush my fingers over each divot, over every star and then some, and I can't help but think, he's among them now. Why does he have to there and not here?
Soft sobs echo across the lawn of the cemetery and a pair of knees joins me on the floor, my mother's hand gone from my shoulder and pressed to her thigh. I can't tell who the cries belong to, me or her, my father's wife of his daughter. I just know that this is our life now and we're going to have to learn to keep going, even if it hurts.
