Through the Eyes of a Child
Paring: YuukoxWatanuki, Yuuwata
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Author's Note: So, I'm back! Thank your for your nice words of encouragment. I got this idea one night, and it wouldn't leave me alone. A little different, but I hope you all like!
I never really understood how different my family was until I was older, and I never realized how I was no ordinary child.
Most adults remember their early childhood in a hazy, confusing blur, but I can recall it with a sharp, colorful clarity that didn't strike me as odd until I was almost a teenager. My first memories were of her, my mother, in her arms, and staring at a deep, crystal basin. I watched the water ripple back and forth, clean and inviting, seeing images swirl in those enchanting waves. I remember how the white, curling lines of the reflected water washed over my mother's ivory skin as she held me.
She was all I knew in the beginning. She would take me to the playground and I would sit on the purple hippopotamus and she would push me on the swing, the cool wind rushing past my face and into my black hair. Sometimes, she would have guests over, however, later I would learn that my mother's friends were among the strangest in the world. But back then, to me, they were normal. They would gather around me and gaze and tell my mother that I was the most beautiful little girl in the world.
"Hisa-chan looks just like her mother, but those eyes. . ."
"You should be proud, she's the loveliest, isn't she?"
"Motherhood suits you in a way I never though possible."
She would always smile politely at the comments, believing that they were true, but tying not to seem too proud. Pride wasn't something that was foreign to her, but with these friends, she would simply close her eyes and bow humbly. Looking back on those early memories, I think I sometimes realized that there was something missing in my mother's life.
Perhaps I first noticed it in her eyes, how her smile never really seemed to reach them. Or maybe it was when I would watch her on the porch, as she stared out from our home. I didn't think much of it at the time, but I would later wonder if she was waiting for something to happen. Once in a while, after having a bad dream, I would sometimes creep from my bed and peek through door to see her in the living quarters. It was one of the rare times I saw her smoke. The haze of burnt tobacco lingering around her as she would lift a small cup to her lips, her eyes glazed and red. . .lost.
Even as a little child, I was wise enough not to make my presence known when she was like this. I would stand behind the screen until the smoke would burn my eyes, and I'd quietly pad back to my room and wonder why her eyes seemed so empty.
Not long after that, I realized how empty my life was as well.
On one of our weekly trips to the park, I had seen a young man and woman playing with a little boy close to my age. The boy had asked to come play with him and his mom.
"Who's that?" I had asked pointing at the older man.
"My daddy," he had responded.
"What's that?" I had asked, and the boy had looked at me as if I were the silliest creature he'd ever met.
"That's my mommy," he then pointed at the woman, "and that's my daddy. Don't you have a daddy?"
I shook my head no.
"I thought all kids had mommies and daddies."
He then ran back to his parents, completely forgetting that he had just set my entire world out of order.
The concept of a father, of another person to care for me amazed my little mind and caused a deep curiosity to overtake my senses. When I had asked my mother, she frowned, sighed, and pulled me into her long arms.
"He left," was all she said.
"I don't know."
To hear her say that confused me, upset me, and had caused me to cry. Grownups always had answers, especially Mother. She was always right, always knew everything. Knew what to say when I had a bad dream, knew how to keep me from crying, she knew what to say when I saw scary things, things that others couldn't. As an adult, however, I came to understand to that my mother knew many things, more than most people, but she didn't know everything.
Once, I saw her kneeling before an alter in our house. I remember how the thick aroma of incense tingled my nose and had burned my eyes, but I remember her, in an odd kimono, staring down into a water dish pensively. Every now and then, she would close her eyes, whisper something, run the incense through the row of candle flames that lined the alter, and I'd watched her dip the smoking incense into the water as her eyes searched the ashes that floated to the top.
It was a ritual. She did this once a month, sometimes twice. As a child, I never much cared or even gave much thought to this act that she displayed religiously every few weeks. But I asked her, not giving it much thought, as to what she was doing.
"I'm looking for someone," she told me. "The ashes, they will tell me if this person is still alive."
When I asked her why she needed to do this, why she didn't just ask the person, she told me that she didn't know where to find him.
"Our connection has faded," she said looking back into the water, a frown flickering across her face, "He made sure to sever it just enough . . ."
I never really wondered who my mother was searching for, at least not right away. But I did hope that she'd find them. The idea of a connection, that someone could be bound and interwoven to another person seemed alien to me. I never realized that my own connections ran deeper than I would ever imagine.
Occasionally, during play-time, dinner, or any part of the day, I would see things in one of my eyes. Flashes of a beach, of sand and sun. Of blue skies sometimes orange and pink with flicks of purple scattered between the stars. Other times I would see wind and rain and blackness stretching for an eternity. I would see twinkles of lighting light up the night sky, even though I would be sitting in the tea room in the middle of a sunny, spring day. I could even hear the crackling boom of thunder, sometimes even the ground shaking beneath my feet, and then I'd begin to cry as my mother would rush me in her arms.
These – I thought of them has daytime dreams and nightmares when I was little – visions always showed me different things, but what I remember most about them, was how I would be stuck with a horrible sinking emotion. A suffocating, scary, hopeless feeling that as I grew up would later come to understand as deep sorrow. A yearning, a longing that no child should ever experience, let alone comprehend.
I never tried to understand these images behind my eye, these waves of emotions that I sometimes felt. They were just many among the strange things I saw every day. That is, until my uncle came to visit.
I loved my uncle despite the fact that he wasn't really my uncle. He was neither related to my mother or my father. But that is what my mother called him, and he treated me with a kindness that could only be caused by unconditional love. Whenever I was with him, I felt as if the world was safer, he made me feel good, and his quiet demeanor and gentle eyes calmed my restlessness. The bad things went away when he was near.
On the day he came it was raining. He had stood in the yard, his broad shoulders and tall frame dwarfing me. Holding an umbrella over himself and me to keep me from getting wet, I couldn't help but notice how his gray hairs dripped with rain. I had grabbed his hand, excited to see him as I enthusiastically pulled him inside the house. When he saw my mother, he had kissed her on the cheek, and the lines in his face seemed more prominent compared to her smooth skin.
I listened through the door as they had talked quietly in the kitchen.
"I'm not sure. But I think he's somewhere warm," my uncle told my mother softly.
"What did you see?"
"The ocean," he responded. "He's somewhere near the ocean. Further south, probably."
"But he's alive?" there was something in her voice that I was not used to hearing. Something I didn't recognize.
"I think so," his soothing, deep voice had held no assurance, "but I was never one to sense the dead."
My mother was silent for a while, and when she spoke, she sounded slightly comforted.
"It's funny," she began, "no matter when or where, you two will always be deeply connected."
"He's connected to you as well," my uncle pointed out.
"I can no longer sense him."
"It doesn't matter," his voice was still calm, "I just don't see what he sees, I can feel what he feels." And then his voice softened to almost a whisper, "He misses you. Obsessively. Most times he believes he can't stand another day without you."
So much silence, too much between words. Enough to make me bored, but then my mother spoke again:
"Thank you," she hushed.
"That's all I saw, I wish I could tell you more."
"You've told me enough. More than enough."
And then he had promised to keep her updated, visited with her and I for the rest of the night, and left. But throughout his entire stay, my mind reeled with the fact that my uncle could see the same things as me. Warm, sun, and sand.
My young mind contemplated too much for that age. The things I saw, the concept of a father, the confusion of my mother's behavior. I even asked her, out of the blue, if she loved my dad. She had said she did. I asked if he loved her. She told me he had. . .once. Did he still? Perhaps. Then she had showed me her ring. I loved that ring, and would stare at it for hours, it was made of the strangest colors I'd even seen, ones that I couldn't find anywhere else.
"This stone," she said, "he gave me this ring, and this stone . . .is one of the rarest in the world. Most people don't even know it exists."
I asked her if it was a diamond, and she had told me no, that it was much more special than that.
"Long ago, before our sun ever lived, the old one began to die, and its rays fell to Earth and became as hard as stone." She then pointed to her ring. "This is known as a Pheobus gem. Some even believe that these stones are what gave the earth life. And you're father earned one of the last, and gave it to me."
I gazed at her ring, transfixed, and asked if I could someday have one of my own.
"Maybe. You're father didn't know this, but there are places. Far away places that exist beyond this world And the land is covered with these gems like the sand in the sea. In these places, this stone is as worthless the little pebble stuck in your shoe. But he never knew of such a world. I never had the heart to tell him because to him, this stone is priceless, and because of that, it is important to me."
After she told me this, I always recall the importance of the Pheobus gem. I remember how her eyes seemed to light up the tiniest bit when talking about my father, I remember even how the sun hit her ring and made it glitter across her skin. But what I remember most, is that it was the first time I wondered if my mother and I were from two separate worlds.
The next time I saw my uncle, I asked him if he had known my father. He told me yes, and when I asked him what he was like, the first thing that came out of his mouth, almost as if he couldn't control it, was the world: "Annoying." Then, after a pause, he looked down at me and smiled. "But not always."
"Hisa-Hisa," he had said, "because of him, you and I will always be connected." And then he smoothed his thumb over my right eye. And at that moment, I suddenly realized that my right eye was the same color as my uncles'.
Then one day, my mother had took my hand, and together we walked through the sunny, clean streets. I asked if we were going to the park, and she told me no, but that we were going to visit someone. When we rounded the corner to come to a modest yet charming home, my mother walked up the walkway and as she was about halfway to the door, the screen slid open, and a small, round elderly woman stepped out to greet us.
"Ah!" she said when she saw my mother, "I was wondering when you'd bring her by. I've been wanting to meet her."
She then looked down at me and patted my head tenderly. Then she wrapped her tiny arms around my mother's waist as my mother bent down and buried her nose in the old woman's, shiny, silver hair.
"So, what brings you here, aside from introducing me to your lovely daughter? Oh my! Look at those eyes!"
Suddenly feeling very shy, I hid behind my mother's legs. When my mother spoke, her voice sound soft, but also extremely emotional. As if she were holding something back.
"I need to know," she told the woman. "I need to know why, and I need to know where."
"But certainly you could find out on your own?"
"No," said my mother. "His power has grown stronger. I can't. . ."
I watched has our host ushered us both into her home. She fed me tea and cake, and then they showed me to the garden where I played as my mother and her friend talked.
I wouldn't learn of who that woman was, or what they were talking about until I was older. Back then, I remember running around her garden, playing, using the power of my imagination. Yes, I sometimes saw things, strange things, but they never hurt me. Perhaps that is why my mother felt it fine to leave me unwatched. That day had seemed like any other day, but as we left, I saw my mother come out to the garden to collect me, and, as she took my hand, I had seen that her eyes were shiny, almost as if they were wet.
We said our goodbyes, and my mother and I walked back to our home as she held my hand tighter than ever. When I asked my mother what was wrong, she simply shook her head.
"He's. . .so stupid. Not surprising."
Her voice sound angry, but as I gazed up at her, I noticed her mouthing tugging upward in a little smile, as if she were trying with all of her might to keep from grinning.
Over the next few days, my mother wasn't home much. She left me with my two, very chipper aunts. They were fun, they loved to play, and they made sure I was taken care of, but during those few days I missed my mother terribly. I would cry myself to sleep wondering where she was or if she had forgotten about me. In reality she may have been gone for only a few days, but to a little girl who had never been separated from her mother before, those few days seemed like an eternity.
Finally, she came home one night. And between me jumping up and down and trying to kiss her face, she told me that we would be taking a trip the next morning, and that I should pack. She wouldn't tell me where we were going, but even back then, I knew. We were going to find him. To find my father. And all night I lay in bed, excited, wondering, imagining what he would be like and the things we would do. Would he be tall or short? Would he be as good at playing as my two aunts were? Or would he simply like to watch me play like mother? Would he play with me at all? Would he tuck me in? Would he make the scary things go away? Would he be happy to see me? All night these questions went through my little head, and I don't think I actually ever came up with plan if he didn't want to do those things with me. Back then, I couldn't grasp that idea.
When we arrived at our destination, the first thing I felt was how warm the wind was. How the air seemed heavy and thick as I breathed it in. How I could taste the salt of the ocean on my tongue just by opening my mouth to speak. Just like in my head, like those images I sometimes saw. I knew this place. This place was so familiar and completely like another world. The trees were different. Tall without any branches, with huge leaves at the top.
"Those are palm trees," my mother informed me. "They grow in places that are warm."
We walked on for what seemed like forever. So long that my feet began to hurt, and my mouth became dry, and I couldn't stop the ache that traveled to my head. The people here spoke a language I'd never heard before, but my mother seemed to understand it, and just as I saw the sun, gold and round, sinking behind the blue of the ocean, we halted by a small peninsula at the edge of the beach.
There was a small shack with a straw roof, and across from the shack was a dock. On the dock I could make out the form of two men.
My mother stood there for a while, her hand shading her eyes from the sinking sun, and my gaze went back and forth between my mother and the two men. They were fishing on the dock and talking. One was short, with dark skin. The darkest skin I'd ever seen. The other was tall, with lighter, yet tan skin, and black hair. I could only see them from behind and my stomach quivered at the thought that one of these men might be my father.
We stood there for a while just staring at the two men. I couldn't figure out why my mother hesitated so, but I felt a pull to these people. As if I should have been with one of them my entire life. Then just as only a sliver of gold was visible from the now purple waters, the short darker man saw us, he then turned back to his friend, and nudged him with his elbow.
The taller man looked back at us, and I saw a flash of something bright twinkle across his eyes. The man stared at us for a moment, and then his line began to tug enthusiastically, and his shorter friend began to yell: "It's a big one! It's a big one!" But he didn't move or pull at his line. Instead, he dropped his fishing pole, and I watched as it skidded across the dock and into the ocean as his friend screamed: "What the hell are you doing?"
He had started to walk to us. Softly, timidly at first, and then faster and faster. As he grew closer I saw that the flash of his eyes that I had seen earlier had been the light reflecting off of his glasses. Finally, he came out five feet from us and stopped, staring at my mother. He was even taller up close and he was very handsome. With broad shoulders and long arms. He looked a little older than my mother but his skin was slightly browner from the sun. His dark hair was short but hung in his eyes. . .
One was blue, and the other was gold. Just like mine.
He stood before my mother, sweating and trembling, he seemed not to even realize I was there at first. His eyes ran over my mother, as if to make sure she was really there, and then she bowed slightly, smiled and whispered: "Hello, Kimihiro."
And then he was moving toward her, as if to grab her, his feet moved quickly and. . .and. . .
And then he saw me.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes searching mine, his mouth falling open. He looked at me, then back at my mother, and back at me again. We stood there for a while, just staring at each other, and I remembered what the little boy had told me in the park that one afternoon. That everyone had a mommy and a daddy.
"Are you my daddy?" I asked.
Then, he bent down, his face close, his eyes looking deeply into mine. He seemed to stare at me for the longest time, and it took me a moment to realize that his eyes were slowly becoming wetter and wetter. That the redness from his eyes were making his left eye electric blue, while his golden eye seemed to glow. And then a sound came out of his mouth, a low, deep sad sound, and as he closed his eyes, I saw two little tears slip out from under his lids.
After that, all I remember is him scooping me up in his strong arms and pressing me into his chest. His shirt smelt like salt and something else. Something clean. Throwing my arms around his neck, I laughed, as he kissed my cheeks, my hair, my forehead, my eyes.
"Oh, my sweet little girl," he cried softly. "My sweet, wonderful, precious little girl!"
I'd never been hugged so tightly before as my father twirled me and rocked me called me his little girl. Turning to my mother, I heard him say: "We have a daughter? You and I? We made this?"
His voice was full of wonderment, and I never saw my mother's confirmation, but I heard him laugh as he pulled back and stared at me, smiling and his eyes full of tears. I'd never seen that before. I always thought tears were bad and meant you were sad, but to see them in the eyes of someone who was smiling, it made me feel weird. . .in the best possible way.
"What's her name?" he asked my mother.
"You can ask her yourself," she replied kindly.
"I'm Watanuki Hisa," I told him proudly. "My mommy and my uncle call me Hisa-Hisa."
"That's beautiful," he said. "She's so beautiful," he added as if talking to himself rather than to me.
The rest of the night was spent with my father and mother and me. My father cooked up a large meal that was the best food I'd ever had. And he and I played the question game, were he asked me questions about myself, and I asked questions about him. All the while my mother had stayed almost silent throughout the evening, and when it was late, my mother told me it was time for bed. I believe my father was more reluctant to have me sleep than I was. He asked my mother if he could tuck me in, and she said yes. After he left, I was too excited to sleep, and he kept opening the door to his bedroom to where I slept and peeking his head in. He stopped after the sixth or seventh time. Once I heard him whisper to my mother:
"She looks like you, but she has my eyes." He then paused. "And it looks like she also inherited one of his eyes as well."
"Well, he did give it to you," my mother pointed out. "You just passed it along to her."
When the shack was finally quiet, I got up and snuck to the bedroom door to steal a glimpse of my father, and as I opened the door a crack, what I saw next would confuse me for the next twelve years.
My mother was kneeling on the floor with my father. . . hunched over as if in a position of worship, his head in her lap and his body shaking. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and I could not get over how long and strong his arms seemed. My mother, with his head face-down in her lap, ran her fingers tenderly through his hair, her long, black tresses veiling him as if she were some revered shrine.
"I'm. . .I'm so sorry, Yuuko," said my father. "I didn't know. . .I swear. . .I thought. . ."
"Shhh," my mother hushed, her long, spindly fingers still threading themselves through his hair. "I understand."
"Can you ever forgive me?" he begged, and I noticed how he began to kiss her legs through her skirt.
And then he kissed his way up her body as my mother cradled his face in her hands and kissed his head. I watched as their mouths met. It felt strange to see my parents kissing so emotionally. I had only ever seen kissing like that on the televison before. But even as a little girl, I knew that this was their moment, not mine. That it should be shared only between a man and a woman who loved each other, so I quietly stepped away from the door and let them have that time together.
The next few days were all about me. They played with me and did things with me. I had never seen my mother so happy or at peace now that she had my father back. I was surprised to find out that my father saw things like I did, he told me that I must've gotten that talent from him. He said that I could see spirits, but that I had also inherited my mother's ability to drive them away if I chose. Those two days were among the best I'd ever had in my life.
On the third day, however, I hardly saw my parents at all. One of my father's friends showed up and watched me all day. He revealed where to fish, how to swim. My parents mostly stayed inside of the shack that day. Only coming out every now and then to see how I was. I didn't know why I hardly saw them that day when I was little, but as I grew older, it became obvious as to what they were doing. Almost six years they had been apart, and their passion for each other had only grown fiercer in that period of time. And as they had missed one another desperately, I could never blame them for wanting to be alone for a little while.
Most sons or daughters would look back on that memory and would have let the hot chucks of bile rise in their throats when they realized what their parents had been up to, but most sons and daughters don't have a mother and father who love each other so severely.
My father came to live with us after that. And he took his role as a father very seriously. From everything to cooking, to playing, to disciplining, he helped create the family that I knew. He and my mother even gave me two little brothers to play with. My little brother needed glasses to see, two blue eyes, just like Father. He also seemed nervous about everything. My littlest brother was small, but he had my mothers eyes that seemed to change color based off of his mood, from a deep red when he was serious, to an unsettling yellow when he was feeling mischievous. That was my life, that was normalcy for me. But as I grew older, I began to realize oddities in my family.
I noticed how my mother and father never seemed to age. That slowly, my age seemed to get closer and closer to matching theirs each day. Or how my mother always needed compensation from everyone she met, even my father. The only exceptions seemed to be us, her children. She was able to do anything for us without having to ask for payment. Perhaps this was because she had given us life. That perhaps because of that, we would always be in her debt.
It was hard to get used to my father's emotions at first. I wasn't used to living with someone who displayed them so honestly. Even when my uncle had finally passed away, it was hard to watch my father so upset. This also confused me since all they ever seemed to do was argue when my uncle was alive.
But I never gave much thought as to the circumstances that had caused my father to leave before I was born. It wasn't until one day, when I was seventeen and out running some errands that I found myself outside of a familiar building.
I recognized it as the house that my mother went to have her fortune told. I hadn't been there in ages, but when the old fortune-teller greeted me with such love, I found it impossible to shy away from her this time. I also noticed how she hadn't seemed to age a day since the first time I had met her.
"Hisa-chan looks so lovely today," she said, pouring me some tea.
"Thank you," I replied.
"You've grown into such a beautiful young woman," she continued. "You're the image of your mother but you have – "
"My father's eyes," I finished. Yes, I had heard that from everyone I met. She smiled.
"So, what brings you to me?"
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I saw your home, and just decided to come by."
"I'm sure you're mother has told you that there is reason in all things," she said and I nodded. "Is there anything you would like to know?"
I thought about that for a moment. Yes, I could have a my fortune told, but I had learned much from my mother, enough to want to leave my path untold and clean for the future. But then I remembered the first time I had met her, and what she and my mother had talked about that day that I had played in the garden.
"I have a question," I told her. "What did my mother want the first time she brought me here?"
At that the fortune-teller smiled again, and bowed her head humbly.
"She wanted to know about your father," she replied. "Where he was and why he left her before you were born."
Once the words left her lips, I realized that I had never really thought of it like that before. I thought about my mother, about the smile on her lips as we left this house, and I wondered what she had learned that day.
"Why did he?" I asked. She sighed and poured herself some more tea.
"Long ago, your father used to work for your mother," she began. "He was her servant at the shop your mother owns. He was about your age when he started, I think."
"My dad worked for my mom?" I said aghast. "How old was my mom?" At this the fortune-teller grinned.
"Do you have any idea how old your mother is?"
I realized then that I hadn't.
"You're mother is much older than most people. Her time was halted, and she can never age. She had been around for some time before she met your father, even before he was born. Your father, you see, came to work for her when he was in highschool, he went to school with your uncle."
I thought back to my uncle, who had been gone and dead for the past three years at the ripe old age of seventy-two. How could it have been that my father looked at least forty years younger?
"But your father, he worked for your mother. He didn't find her interesting in the least, but over time, as he grew older, they became closer, and as they became closer, his feelings for her started to change."
"They fell in love," I finished.
"But over time, your father began to realize that their love wouldn't last forever. That at some point, he would grow older, and she would stay the same. This realization almost drove him crazy. So he vowed to find a way to be with her forever.
"When he was thirty-three, he found a way to do it, but it was dangerous. To halt his time, he would have to undergo a series of trials that would test him physically, mentally, emotionally, even mess with his sanity. The trials lasted a week, and during that time, the connection between he and your mother was severed. Your father said it was the only time he ever saw your mother go against hitzusen. She had begged him not to go. Her begging had cost her greatly.
"He had survived the trials, and came back incredibly weak, but unable to age. However, he had been told something that would cause him to leave your mother years later."
"What happened?" I asked, unable to keep from hearing this epic love I didn't know my father or mother possessed.
"Your father during his trials was warned that two people cannot love each other forever. That love was not meant to last for an eternity. He was told that this woman who he was fighting for would inevitably drift away from him, fall out of love with him, and perhaps even grow to hate him. After he came back, your father became paranoid that your mother would leave him."
"So he left her?"
"Not quite. When your mother conceived you, her maternal instincts clouded her perception and made her less. . .wonderful to live with. Your father, worried that perhaps she was falling out of love with him, began to try and find ways of saving their relationship. A few fights later, he was convinced that your mother was now growing to despise him, and not able bear it, he vowed to leave her if it would make her happy. He believed that a life without him would make your mother happy again. Before he left, he severed the link between your mother and him so that she wouldn't never be bothered by him again.
"What he didn't know was she was pregnant with you, and even more so, that what he had been told during the trails had been a lie, as part of the trials, to try and discourage him from winning. Love can last forever if two people want to love for an eternity. Your mother knew that, and was confused as to why your father left."
"So," I interjected, "everything they had gone through, all the loss they endured was all apart of some big misunderstanding?"
"Yes," she said.
I thought back to my mother, and what she had said after we had left the house that day: He's. . .so stupid.
"You're father may have been stupid," she said as if reading my thoughts, " but he loves your mother in a way I didn't think was possible to exist in this world. I hope you can find someone to love you like that someday, Hisa-chan."
I closed my eyes and hoped that maybe I would, too.
And I did.
Throughout the course of my life, I've experienced many things. Learned wonderful mysteries from my mother, and interesting skills from my father. And as I lie here, the last breathes receding from my lungs and the taste of death on my tongue, my wrinkled face shriveled and my limbs shaking, my father and mother lean over me, still looking as young as they did when I was five, and hold my trembling hands.
My father cries, and there is a sadness in my mothers eyes and I know she would give anything to trade places with me. I am their first child out of many, but I'm not the first one to die. My parents have had and have lost many children. But I'm the first to make it this far. I've been lucky to have lived as long as I have. And now I'll get to be with my husband again, and I have no regrets. I got to live, to get married and have children and to have a full life.
I ask my father and mother why they seem so sad, I'm not their only child, they have so many, even a little baby boy. I've had my own life, been in and out of there's during the last years of my life. How could they even keep up me with all the children they've had?
That's when my mother places a kiss on top of my withered, cracked forehead and tells me that I'm still her daughter, her first, and that she'll always mourn me, always remember me, and always love me. That I'll always be hers.
My father tells me that even through all the children he's raised, that I'm the only one who's had his eyes. And that because of that, we'll always be connected, in a way he will never be with my siblings. That our bond will continue even after death and for an eternity. Because I am his daughter. His beautiful, lovely, sweet little girl.
As I hear the pressure in my ears decrease less and less, as my heart starts to slow and my visions begins to fade, I still feel the wind rushing through my hair as my mother pushes me on the swings, I hear her laughter and her warmth. And just before my eyes close for the last time, I see the sun setting behind the deep blue and green sea. I see sand and sky and palm trees. I hear the rush of waves and taste the salt on my tongue. I feel my parents arms around me.
And I'm home.
So, that's it for this one. A little boring, but there is a lot of Yuuwata in it if you know where to look. Sorry, I just had to write about thsi topic, it wouldn't leave me alone. Totally worth it. Thanks again!