The Northern Lights

Chapter 32. Memory.

France, 2011

Arlo awoke before the sun had risen, but just now has light begun to shed. It pierces through the blinds, Arlo notices particles of dust that float by like little wandering planets. The drapes flow over his bedroom window like red wine, though they are unable to block the pleasant whistles of feathered friends. Arlo hides under his blanket, shuts his eyes, today is my birthday, today, I can make another wish. Before he is able to whisper the request, he hears the hinges of the master bedroom door gradually squeak open. Then, footsteps, as soft as feathers that land on pillows, is that papa? He wonders if his last two birthday wishes have finally been granted. And yet somehow, through the thin walls, he knows that it is his mother who walks down the stairs.

Arlo stares up at the ceiling, figures of his imagination begin to flutter into his vision, clusters of clouds, flutters of birds and eventually, a beaming circle of white. Arlo blinks, and all the imaginary scenes disappear. He sighs, the ceiling is once again a faint shade of purple. He knows that he cannot get him back. That his father was a grain of sand that fell through the gaps of his fingers. Arlo begins to wonder, when his time will be up, when his final grain of sand falls from the top half of the hourglass. His body shrivels, the thought of death triggers him to claw his hair out from his scalp. His breathing becomes more rapid and his mind feels as though it has collapsed in on itself. He tries to hear his papa's voice. But he can barely remember his face, how would he remember the soothing sound of his reading?

For a moment he feels as though he is drowning, his chest are the waves that crash up and down that make him feel trapped. In a panicked sweat he jumps out from his bed, flies open the curtains. The sun warms his face, calms his thoughts. He stares at the pale blue sky, not a cloud in sight, just a canvas of blue. He's up there! He has to be. Arlo thinks to himself, truly believing his thoughts, thinking that he can only visit his father in Norway.

Each step down the stairs become harder, as though each inch he walks own is another ton added to his shoulder. It is only his eighth birthday and yet, he feels so exhausted, so fragile. He hears his mama move pots? Plates? Pans? Who knows? And then, a familiar scent comes whirling through the hallways. What is that? The smell is an ember that flies in his mind, preparing to light up an unwanted memory.

His mum stands motionless beside with a plate in her hand. Arlo is not tall enough to see what lies on the plate but is old enough to recognize the pain her eyes as she stares blankly at the wall, haunted by her thoughts.

"Mama? Are you okay?"

She snaps out of the daydream with a smile, "Of course. Hey birthday boy, I made you something special, take a seat."

He sluggishly climbs up the chair as if it is a mountain. His mama sets the dish down in front of him and a crêpe stares back up at him. Arlo feels is a five-year-old again, sitting at the table in which he heard his father whistle for the last time. What food was in front of him when he politely asked his father for a glass of chocolate milk when he sent him to his death? His intestines twist and turn, his stomach is tightened like a knot. His mind begins to fluster itself with questions. Has he been poisoned? Will he vomit? He hasn't eaten anything to be poisoned or vomit out yet.

"Arlo? What's wrong?"

"Nothing-" his eyes search for a distraction, are unable to lock onto what lies on the plate in front of him, as if looking into it will crush his soul, "I don't feel well mama, can I go back into my room?"

"Of course," she says, with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Arlo jumps off the chair and paces quickly to his room. His mother said something, but her voice was drained out by the many thoughts in his mind. He just knows that he never wants to see a crêpe again. He quickly bursts into his room and under his sheets and his pillow begins to soak with tears. No sunlight touches his skin, instead, guilt borrows itself underneath it.

A voice in his head begins to whisper something that he hadn't been able to admit for countless nights. It is your fault he is gone. Your fault that you can't remember his voice anymore. His pillows are sponges for the tears, his sheets are walls for the broken screeching cries.

Arlo loses track of time, is unsure if he has been crying for fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. He forgets that today, he is eight. To Arlo, his birthday is no longer called birthday, it is called the day before his father's death.

The only thing that separates Arlo from his mother is two inches of wood. The sound of Arlo sobbing is muted, but enough to make a mother's hairs raise. She twists the doorknob, slowly pushes it open.

"Arlo?" her ears are met with sniffles, the blanket that flows over him has creases that resemble mountains and hilltops. She sits on the bed beside him, the drawings of him and his father still hang, though the lead is begging to fade, "Want to talk about it?"

"No," he utters under the blanket, unable to fool a child.

Azra's gentle hands pull the blanket away, her thumb wipes away a tear from his cheek. Seeing Arlo without his round glasses made her notice how much he looks like his father, "Is it about papa?" He nods. "Arlo, just because he's not here, doesn't mean he's not here."

The way she says here makes him think of the lights, "I forgot what his voice sounds like mama. I don't want to forget him."

"Arlo..." Azra runs her fingers through his hair, he is too smart for his own good she thinks, "your father will always be alive in your memories, even if you can't hear his voice," she smiles, thinks of the dream she had the night before, hearing his voice, "okay?"

Arlo nods, notices a familiar image held in his mother's hand. Azra follows his gaze, remembers the card in her between her grasp, "Your Grandmother sent a card," she notices the grin on his face, how the tears have disappeared. She opens it for him, and they read it together.