Important and Urgent

Zeke laments parenthood.

 Wearing his customary pristine white tunic, hair disheveled in a turbulent sea of grey swells and shimmering whitecaps, face warm bronze to match hands aged and weathered in the love of all things outdoors, shoulders symmetrically sloped displaying the strength and beauty of mountains in winter, Zeke listened with the patience of the sparkling ocean that glittered before his pale blue eyes. He leaned back, wooden chair kissing wooden desk like timid children out of teacher's sight, while the voice on the other end of the line spoke of matters important and urgent.

Questions sat, not asked. Just talking and listening. What the hellocks could be said that had not already been said? Words had been poured forth from father to son as water to stone. Familiarity bred not contempt, but accepted weariness, the kind of weariness that existed between husband and wife in the morning when love was a memory long faded and questions of endearment no longer offered nor expected. So the questions just sat, unopened, ignored, gifts forever unknown.

When the call ended, Zeke stood, drawing breath of brass and bergamot, wood old and leather worn; his hands held behind his back, softly, one into the other, fist into palm like ball into glove. He looked upon the waters of Valla as if in the looking a sign or signal would appear, and he could take his hands and do something. To do something to hold at bay thoughts of what had been done and, thoughts be damned, what had not. Take what you want, then pay for it. Is that how it is? Reluctant, with belly full, to pay for the meal. Blame the cook need only a mirror.

His son had succeeded, at work. Won prestigious awards, stood in the world on his own merits, had married and had two beautiful children, Kyra and Emily. Something changed when Emily died. He withdrew. Episodic bursts of anger as unpredictable as infrequent. His wife looked on with dead eyes, leaden tongue, their marriage held together by professional ambition; and the storm.

They had chosen Emily over Kyra, second born over first. Had taken her with them on their travels. Said that Kyra's schooling was the reason she was left behind. Damn the lies, the pretense. Parents tended to favor one child over the other, but the art of parenting was never to let either child know which was which. Perhaps he succeeded. Kyra never questioned or if she did, never gave voice to the doubt. Yet, still, the child seemed, at times, melancholy beyond her summers. What do we ever really know of the inner life of another, forever sifting clues and forming assumptions, drawing conclusions, forgetting that what we know pales in comparison to what we don't.

The call talked of things important and urgent. The planet was in peril. Changes had to happen now. Those in power were in denial. Zeke listened. Not once was the question asked. How is Kyra?

__________

A few years earlier . . .

"Papa," asked Kyra, "why are you crying?"

"When I see you, I see the most beautiful thing in the whole world and the joy from my heart expresses itself through my eyes."

"Is that why Grand is crying too?"

Papa looked over his shoulder, his beautiful bride leaning against the worn door frame, her hand wiping her nose. "Yes, Kyra," she said.

"Can I cry too?"


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