The View of the Sun
By Ryan Coe
As the tips of the sun's golden rays stretched out over rural Japan, Mark sat painting. The light reflected off of the glossy paints he held in his lap as he bent over to grab his brush. Dipping it into the deep red paint jar, he began to transcribe the image from around him onto a simple canvas. As he stroked, Mark could not help but to marvel at the beauty of his autumn house and the acres of land that it rested upon. Fields upon fields of tall, golden grass and murky rice fields flooded into his head, and he once again resumed the slow, delicate process of producing a work of art. Gently loosening his light, worn robe from around his shoulders, the heat of the day retreated to the sky. In this brief moment, Mark recalled the time that he had visited this hallowed land with his father, plotting out the boundaries, and marveling at the speed that his long, skilled fingers worked the equipment. His father beckoned him to approach, and warily he did so. Placing the compass in his hands, Mark's dad said to him, "Find the northern heading and place one stone marker there. Then, turn and pace 500 steps to the east. Once there, look up." After doing as he was asked to do, Mark lifted his eyes to the heavens and witnessed the almost sacred sunrise that had just started. The colors of red, yellow, and a faint tinge of purple sat in front of him, and Mark got lost in them. A new feeling emerged from deep within him, one that was stowed away years ago in the abyss of his heart. Marc, for the first time in what seemed like decades, was truly happy.
Glancing over at his father, he saw streams of tears running down from his eyes, just as the local Hung' Ton River does when the snow begins to ebb away.
"What's wrong?" Mark asked.
"Nothing is wrong," his father replied, "It's just that, for once, everything is right. This is exactly how your mother described her perfect future; a house with you, me, and herself overlooking a vast field with the sun always streaming through open windows. She said that one day I would finally be able to see as she did, and now I do. I really do."
Mark's father broke down and, to the best of his ability, Mark took a mental snapshot of that moment when everything just seemed... right.
That night they camped out under the stars, the foundation of the new house surrounding them. They sat quietly, sharing a small package of meat and rice that Mark's dad had stowed away. As they looked into the crackling flame, with the sparks climbing higher than seemed possible, Mark's dad pulled him close, and together they sat. Now seemed the right time for Mark to ask a question that had nagged his mind for a few years now.
Mark said, "I know that you are building this house for the two of us to live in and prosper as peasants, but what if I don't agree with your plan. What if I was interested in, well, selling items? It's only because..." Mark was interrupted by his dad.
"Hush now. Now is not the time for such matters to be addressed. Besides, you would be the lowest of the low; the garbage of Japan. Let's sleep on it, ok?"
Even though he was right by his father, he still felt further apart then ever from him.
Opening his eyes, Mark rubbed the sleep out of them. He picked up his brush and completed his painting, with the sunrise of the present and the sunset of the past merging into one, combining to balance one another; to unify. Packing up, he folded the wooden stand and tucked it into the back of his bulging cart. The painting, however, he left standing on the tree that he sat under. In this way, Mark told himself, all of the world could fully appreciate the beauty of life. Even though you can never make it last, he told himself, you can still take back a small memento. Adjusting his firm sandals, he mounted his horse and began to ride towards the one place that he had always known; home.
