Androphobia

xxviii. cloud walking

Deep Green - Christian Kuria

SYNN'S POV:

Sunlight poured through the frosted window like syrup, slowly, languidly, and it spilled into the bathtub that I was sitting in. Mamá had opened the window a crack, giving sight to a puzzle piece of blue sky and cotton clouds that wisped into nothing. Now, she knelt beside the bath, letting her hand drift in the water while I played with my toy aeroplane. My lips blurred and vibrated to make flying sounds as the aeroplane would soar and then crash in the deep blue depths of the sea. My fingers had wrinkled like dates long ago but Mamá seemed to be in her own little world as she poured cups of water over my shoulders and returned to listlessly stare at the wall beside me.

"Mamá?"

"Mamá?"

"Mamá!"

She snapped out of her reverie and blinked at me, blue eyes mirroring the sky behind her. Apologetically, she smiled and ran a wet hand over my cheek.

"Yes, mijo?"
[My son.]

"I have a question," I told her and dunked the aeroplane under water. Mamá nodded her head for me to ask, now paying full attention to me which somehow made me embarrassed. "Mamá... why am I not good at fighting?"

"What do you mean fighting?"

"All the other boys at school fight but whenever I try, I get scared," I said frustratedly, "And then I start crying! I hate crying."

There had been many a time where Carmelos would laugh at my spontaneous tears, whether it be because I fell down or someone had angered me to the point of silence, but over time, he'd grown to be comforting when I cried. And that was even worse. I wasn't a baby. I was six years old, almost a man. I wasn't supposed to be crying over little things. My father had scolded me for it too.

"There's nothing wrong with someone who cries," said Mamá with a frown, perplexed by my words.

"Yes, there is. Boys don't cry. Only babies do."

"No, baby, that's not true. Maybe boys don't cry, but I know that men cry."

"Men?" I repeated. I scowled at the water and fiddled with the propeller on the aeroplane. "Liar. Papá never cries. I never see any man cry."

"Your father is... different," she said carefully and I looked up at her. Her blue eyes were pale, paler than mine, and they almost had a dreamy look about them. Swishing her hand in the water, she finally looked at me. "Do you know what's special about you, mijo?"
[My boy.]

"What?"

She raised her wet hand to my cheek and her thumb glided under my eye. "You're love to love, not to fight."

"Love?" I said with disgust. "Yuck."

"You may say that now, but I know you," smiled Mamá and ran her fingers through my bubbly hair. "You're my handsome little man, aren't you? But more than that, you're kind. You have a kind, kind heart. And the fact that you cry? That makes you a man. A man isn't someone who always fights or raises their fist to solve a problem. A man is someone whose heart stays soft for the ones he loves, someone who shows mercy to the weak, someone who sheds a tear when they are hurt. You might not think so, but showing weakness is strength."

"That's not what Papá says."

I dropped my plane into the water and started gathering bubbles on my side of the tub. As I pondered, I found my reflection peering up at me in the water, his eyes inspecting my appearance just as much as I was doing his. There was his black coal hair, and there was his long nose, and there were his big, blue eyes - everything just like Mamá's. But somehow, despite every feature I shared in common with her, I resembled my father entirely. I couldn't understand how, but people always said it.