Ephemeris

2 : A Celebration of Light and Life

Daniel was alerted by the hissing sound of the kettle. He put the pencil down and lingered on the letter lying on the desk. He shifted his focus to his little hands, slowly supinated them, and revealed his calloused palms. He could not brush off from his mind the horrible memory, his clumsy dribbling, and the spoiled pasta. His brown eyes were blankly imprisoned in guilt. He lifted his head, and a reflection from the windowpane stared back at him—a freckled boy, expressionless and pale. He shook his head, hid the papers under his study desk, hopped off the wooden chair, and then rushed to where the hissing sound came from—the kitchen.

He switched on the light and spotted the electric kettle. Taking out the plug, he retrieved two mugs from the cupboard and poured hot water into them—one for milk and the other for chamomile tea. After searching the fridge for tomatoes and cucumber and opening another cabinet for sliced bread and canned tuna, he meticulously peeled the cucumber and chopped the tomatoes with his tiny hands. In the process, he accidentally forgot about the mayonnaise, which was left alone on the far edge of the counter. However, he quickly reached for it, generously spreading it on the soft bread's surface. He then topped the sandwiches with thin slices of tomatoes, cucumber, and tuna flakes—one for himself and one for his mom.

Daniel lightly pressed his footsteps, climbing the stairs while holding a platter. He reached the main bedroom door, turned the knob as quietly as possible, and opened it ajar. A gust of wind escaped. He peeped through the narrow opening, surveying the room cloaked in stale dimness.

His mom had stationarily fallen into a deep sleep. He entered the room while holding his breath, put the tray on a desk by the door, and gasped for another volume of air. He slid the drawer open and prepared her meds. He did not know what these meds were for, but he followed the prescription explained by a physician and a nurse a year ago. He closed his eyes.

———————

Daniel flashed from his hazy memory of the night when he called assistance from a hospital. His mother was not being herself that evening. It was two weeks after the baby's death, the disintegration of the moon, and the killing that poor Daniel claimed as his own doing.

The male nurse with a slender neck comforted his mom in her uncontrollable sobbing as if nothing could console her after the life from her belly was lost. She screamed in high pitches and cursed the nurse badly. But then the nurse was too patient.

The old bearded physician helped him and used his authority and big arms, making the squabble fade. He then began his quick check of her health.

"I do not need any help!" his mother blustered in a cracking husky voice, "Not from you, or from you... and not from him!" she pointed her forefinger at Daniel, frozen in shock, leaning against the gray wall.

"Ma'am, relax. You're scaring your boy," the physician explained.

Her ginger eyes streamed tears like a waterfall. She swung her arms theatrically in the air for a couple of seconds and ended up caressing her belly. In a few ticks, she was still, but she spun her neck to where the terrified boy was watching her. "You should be scared of that boy," she whispered slowly.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but what did you say?" the nurse asked.

"You should have an eye at your back because that boy," she glared at the poor kid, "has done something... bad."

Daniel ran to his room, just a wall adjacent to hers, and slammed the door. A picture frame landed on the dusty carpet. He curled like a ball and covered his ears, quivering like a sheep on his bed. The neatly pressed bed sheet wrinkled as he buried his head in the mattress. His lungs were burning in hatred from not breathing and not letting his pain out. He wept.