Chapter One: Central Park

It’s late, almost eleven o’clock, and definitely far beyond the time my sister and I should be roaming around in Central Park. The sun went down an hour ago which only gives us the light from the moon and lamp posts to go by. Trees loom around us, creating drawn out shadows on the ground; branches taking the image of outstretched hands. Any normal girl at the age of sixteen would find this to be quite an eerie situation, but for us, it’s just another average Tuesday night.

Beside me, Rosalie stares into the shadows, a longing look encasing her eyes. I know from past experiences how much she wishes to be back at our country estate in Montana. And that here, in Central Park, is the closest she will get to the woods of our home. It’s not just her though, I too continually wish with desperation that we could simply go back to the way things were. Back to when our mother wasn’t sick with cancer, when we were all three living so happily in our small cottage. Now we’re stuck here, in this tangle of skyscrapers and people, no space to even breath. Except for times like this, when we can walk freely through the park, not a soul in sight.
“Lumi, do you think we’ll ever go back?” I look over at Rosa and know that she must have been thinking the same thing as I. But her question saddens me because I know the answer all too well.
“No, I don’t think we will. But New York isn’t that bad,” My feeble attempts to cheer her up are useless; I’m lying and she knows it. “We only have to stay ‘till mom gets better and then we’ll be back in Montana in no time.”
“Yeah,” Rosa sighs, gazing back into the darkness. You have father's eyes, I think to myself. A part of me wonders if telling her this will console her, take away a piece of her grief. But I quickly cast the idea from my mind. Gran had been clear, as she laid upon her death bed, pressing the crisp photo into my hand, that I was not to tell Rosalie of it. It is true none the less, she had fathers green eyes; eyes like an evergreen forest during a spring storm, dark, deep, and warm.
I on the other hand, had not inherited our father’s eyes. Instead I grew to welcome my mother's, full and grey with a touch of blue; like ice on a frigid winters day. And her heart shaped face, of which I have come to admire, has also blessed me with its presence. You look like your mother, Gran had once told me, but you have your father's hair. My hair, currently cascading down my back, stands out against the dark blue of my sweater. The ivory, almost white, color of it often brings attention to myself which I would so willingly do without. And I cannot for the life of me, curl it and make the curls last for any longer than a minute.
In the picture I now keep hidden beneath a floor board in the foster home, our father is shown to have identical hair. Of course, not as long, but it sweeps into his eyes, shining from the sun beaming down that day.
That day. The last day. For him at least; our father. I was one, and my mother was pregnant with Rosa. I don’t remember anything about him, I was so little, though every now and then, in dreams, I’ll catch a hint of cologne, a voice.

Not much though, and I don’t normally linger on the thought of him, but walking along with Rosa now, thinking of her eyes, his eyes, I can’t help but linger a little.

Reviews

[forevermore1218]

cool chapter! I am looking foward to reading more from you :D

[kayla]

This is really good(: I look forward to reading more of it.