As the Sun, So the Moon

Chapter 2

My father is there waiting.

To be more specific, my father is standing in the middle of my bedroom door, acting as a very thin, over-worked barrier between me and the room on the other side of the doorway.

And it's hazy - everything is hazy in the classic honey-colored lighting that a late summer evening usually offers.

It's not October of 1942, but early August sometime in the mid-1930s.

My head struggles with the transition between sleep and awake as I tumble from my bed cushion, my body a little too hot in the summer heat. Floorboards seem to arbitrarily shift each time I try to walk another step toward my father, who hasn't moved an inch from that same doorway. Flexing my fingers and creasing my limbs proves to be a difficult action, as every time I try to do either, it's incredibly slow.

It's as if I'm moving underwater, traveling through space-

I brush a tangled mass of hair from my face, attempting to rub my eyes open, but after kneading them to the point of redness, I realize the blurred vision isn't my eyes struggling to focus at all - it's just how things are. Billowing white curtains have a hint of fuzziness to their ends, and the color of the walls keeps shifting.

Ocre.

Cream.

Gold.

I'm stumbling into my father's leg then, forgetting how short I am in comparison to him. He crinkles himself down to match my height, and I find his eyes are shifting colors in accordance with the walls.

Periwinkle.

Sky blue.

Vermillion.

"Papa," I yawn, forgetting to cover my mouth. My voice is so small, I could cry. Where had my real voice gone? Why was this one so young, so delicate? Why did my entire body feel so tender, as though it were about to shatter?

He doesn't answer me, not even to hush me, and hums a tune that dances on the edge of familiarity. In a moment, I'm whisked up in his arms, my groggy head resting on the hollow space between his neck and shoulder. A strong feeling of security washes over me her like a wave, dowsing me in warmth, and I realize this is how I want to spend eternity: nestled in the crook of my father's elbows, balancing my skull on the tip of his shoulder, the hushed wind whispering around the two of us while the last glimpses of sunlight filter the entire room in a thick, amber light.

If tranquility were a place, this would be it.

He carries me to the kitchen and rests me in a sitting position at the small, circular table, my head wobbling with leftover sleep. When I open my mouth to ask him what's happening, why is everything so calm, so peaceful, so strangely tranquil-

He says, "Do you want sugar in your tea, Sprout?"

I snap my mouth shut, think for a moment, and nod. My father drops a lump of sugar in each cup, stirring it in thoroughly, and for another brief moment, I'm met with an indescribable sort of silence. A silence that isn't really silent; a silence that is littered with the muffled jingles of the wind chimes next door, the light clinking of the silverware against the edges of the teacups, the rustle of the wind fluttering the window curtains across my father's figure, making him appear as even more of a ghost than before.

Is that what this is?

Am I being haunted?

He sets the tea in front of me in a cup with decorative vines spiraling across it. I trace the leaves with my eyes and wonder if my mother would ever plant ivy in her garden.