Stories Spun by Scenes

The Lights of Alaska

I, Katherine Micheals, had just run away from home. Not just because I felt like it, but because I couldn’t take anymore.

Dad sat in the black La-Z-Boy leather recliner with his bare feet dangling off the edge.

“Kat,” he drawled, long and slow, slurring the three mere letters of my name together. “Go get me another…mmm…” he zoned off, a beer clutched between his thumb and forefinger swinging it around to indicate he wanted another. On the small wooden table resting next to him were nine or ten bottles of beer, resting dry. He had turned into an alcoholic ever since my mother died. She died of leukemia a year prior. Her absence hadn’t only caused him to be an alcoholic, but it was as though when she died, she took every good part of him away too. Gone were his kind hearted nature, his strong heart, intelligent mind, and caring soul. He no longer card for me at all, no longer worked, no longer ever moved from his chair. I was forced to watch the shell of my father fade to death. I still loved him and pitied him for who he used to be and the hardship he has dealt with. I did the most I could, cooking and bringing him whatever he ordered. I did it half because I cared, and half because I knew what would happen if I didn’t.

I feared him now and watched idly while he drank his life away and gained more weight. I watched his once sparkling eyes fade to gray and hollow out. I watched him die, right before my eyes.

 I left because I thought maybe, if I did, things would change. I also left because I knew he wouldn’t and couldn’t stop me. I figured if I left, he wouldn’t have anyone to get him beers anymore, no one to cook for him, and maybe then he’d finally get his rear off of that dreadful chair.

I hoped so, but I also knew it was more likely he’d deem getting up not worth it. He’d rather die than move a muscle. I pictured him there, lying in that chair famished, parched, and depressed. I tried to push the image from my mind.

Either way, I decided, it was time for me to make my leave.

My father was passed out when I left, the remainder of his beer dribbling out onto his dirty maroon tee-shirt. I didn’t leave a note, or any sign at all of my leaving. I doubted he would care.

I carried my heavy backpack filled with bottles of water, various food items, clothes, flashlight, batteries, and minor probably unneeded things. I packed a lot, but I only needed it to last me a week or two, until I could reach the town center of Nome, Alaska. I didn’t have a plan or a reason at all. My first priority was simply finding my way there.

My small cabin was isolated with not even a road connected to it. To many, they described it as scenic, peaceful, and surreal.

For a fifteen year old like me, it just seemed barren, bleak, and lonely. I set out of the quiet landscaped, dressed to prepare for the biting winds and toxic frost, its cold hands trying to grab me away.

For a while I just walked in silence, trying to push thoughts of my dead mother and dying father away, the only sounds being my thick black combat boots crunching and leaving small footprints in the top layer of snow. I guess I walked for a pretty long while, with my eyes trained on the clear untouched snowfall resting in front of me and letting my thoughts pass the time away. When I looked up, I was in complete awe.

Daylight was gone, from the timing of my watch. It was getting to dusk, and many delicate speckles of glowing lights of stars had begun to grace the royal blue night sky. In the horizon, an orb with rays of a majestic pink spurted out, as though a pink sun was rising in the distance just beyond the snow dotted tree line. The most magnificent part, however, was the great northern lights, the Aurora Borealis that danced over Alaska.

I had never been granted a chance to see it, and I was amazed at it even now. Swirls of a light pale blue and emerald green spun together like wisps of cotton candy clouds weaving to touch the horizon. It was like precious colored smoke from some spiritual fire that swirled and spun across the sky.

When I was younger, my mother used to read me books or tell stories about the ancient tribes of Alaska and their beliefs. My great-great grandmother was a member in the Inuit tribe, and my mother loved to tell the stories about their beliefs the most.

“Some Inuit looked into the aurora borealis, or northern lights, to find images of their family and friends dancing in the next life,” she would tell me, smiling and staring into the distance with a thoughtful expression on her kind marble face.

“Do you believe that’s true?” I would ask her, wide eyed and hopeful.

Smiling, she’d whisper, “If only I could see it, I would.” She’d then kiss my forehead and tell me goodnight without another word.

Now, beholding the aurora that my mother could only dreamed of, I couldn’t help but believe. On first look, it was wisps of rainbow amazing color, but the lights seemed to blur and shimmer as if it couldn’t quite stand still. I urged my mind to think of memories of my gracious mother and then I saw her, dancing in the sky. My mother and grandmother dancing, and smiling, and I swear before the image faded- she blew me a kiss.

You could say the cold was getting to me, or I was just seeing what I wanted to see. But I know that was my mother in the lights, smiling down on me and reminding me through the lights that she was always there. The aurora shook with excitement, though I could no longer see the dancing figures, the sight was still fantastic. The patch of light seemed to smile down on the smooth unbothered white snow covered Earth below, while a huge blazing red fire sparked far off into the distance.