Starry Wonders: Dreams of the Past

002

In the early, early morning, when the kingdom was steadfast in slumber, Michael's things were packed and ready to go.

He'd swapped his pajamas for a long-sleeved, nude robe that stretched to his ankles. Made from a lightweight cotton fabric, it would provide ample air circulation during long treks under the harsh Yuhnayehn sun. The hood was draped over his back, golden inscriptions stitched along the rim—scriptures from Oshahe's Teachings. His bag was attached by rope, criss-crossed over his chest and ribs, and was stuffed full of clothing and other necessities.

Michael sat at his windowsill, just as he did as a child; legs crossed, body turned toward the glass. He had been stuck in that position for hours, lost in a daze, analyzing the blue planet which remained a dormant threat throughout the night.

Clouds of violet and indigo blanketed the orange, pink swirling skies. Yuhnayeh was known for its beauty—so enchanting it mesmerized its beholder. When Michael's memories faded, dreams of colorful skies were all he had to remember where he came from.

Only, his recollection had exaggerated the hues into a mystical vibrancy that only dreams were capable of. And on his return, he turned toward the skies and recounted each color that had lost their luminous grandeur—pinks, golds and oranges were drowned in blue.

Everything was lost to blue.

Knocking his forehead on the glass, Michael uttered a prayer, asking for guidance and success in his travels. His shoulders slumped. Sighing, he finally turned his back to the window.

From his robe pocket, he fetched his journal, a pensive frown taking to his features, as he observed the faded, well-loved spine.

Of the many material items Michael possessed, his journal—the one given to him on Earth—was among the most important.

He flipped through it, stopping whence finding a folded paper tucked in the crease of a blank spread. He opened it and traced faded words and sketches with a frown.

The lines on the drawing were blurred, words legible, but just barely so, and the off-white page was entirely smudged. Michael's English was far from fluent, even after the five years spent pouring over the few books he'd taken with him, but he greedily re-read the inscription with practiced ease.

When he found himself drifting, wondering if his ambitions were too ambitious, whether he was clinging too tightly to a future that might never happen, to a past that had long been abandoned in the dust, he flipped through his journal and stared down at the loose paper, down at the drawing his beloved made for him, and found the strength to keep going.

("Because of you, My Shining Star," she'd croaked, breath shallow, as she fought the paralysis spanning her chest, "I've flown high into the sky. I've touched the clouds, I've nestled in the stars, and I've reached heaven at last."

The paper crinkled in Michael's balled fists. He dropped his hands in his lap, fighting the chatter in his teeth, the agonized sob that was desperately clawing its way up his throat. He wanted to scream. To beg. To grab Monty by the shoulders and rattle her until she promised him everything would be alright, that she wouldn't quit fighting because he needed her and he didn't understand why she was giving up.

She had been a pillar of strength, keeping his frayed edges together. She embraced his ways and expected nothing in return. Beautiful and warm in a way he'd never witnessed and would never witness again.

Losing her wasn't an option. It couldn't be. Not after everything and everyone Michael had lost. To hell with Oshahe, Ehmowa or the world! What more could they take away from him?