❝ adrift, bygone, but always near. still loved, still missed, and still dear. ❞
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⠀ ⠀Wherein Ash and Serena reunite with the latter by an unseen stroke of fate. With a history l...
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We used to visit the graveyard with bouquets of sunflowers back then in Kalos. Sunflowers because - just like those yellow, alit souls, daylight was a fuel to my father. He was a son of the Sun - sounds homophonic but is legitimate at the same time.
Despite the fact that dad was an admirer of astronomy and dark, celestial bodies, he often got hyper when summers came forth. I can reminisce it as clear as the sky those days, Vacations were spent cooking delicacies and watering our little nursery of flowers in the front yard. And most of the times dad used to, like, spray water from the hose all around the garden, wetting the evergreen grass as the drops shone like malleable diamonds in the sunlight.
Mom's scolds were relentless upon detecting us in a soaking mess - we used to answer her with sheepish smiles and firming, "Won't repeat it, promise," and forgetting about that so-said commitment the very next day.
If only I could restrain those moments in my palms, preserve them in tightly clasped fists, But that's never gonna matter.
Time is caged within sandclocks - in powdered granules that fall solicitously as the world goes on. The bygone sand is meant to be flown with the wind and the yet-to-come should be accepted with outspread smiles.
Still, somehow, we never tend to permanently detach ourselves from the yesterdays, from the pointed ends that we had escaped on our own willfulness. We are aware that it'll get us hurt, it'll shed blood, that taste of iron we've grown familiar with. And yet, we never seem to break away from it, and that's fair enough. Who says that one's past is comprised of mere agonies?
We gain something everytime we fall, whether it's a profuse wound on the knee or those unessceary tears - we learn. Our retrospection scores a brand new memory, a brand new adventure.
I rubbed my sweater-cloaked arms as a listless but chilly breeze dashed by us, causing the bunch of crispy autumn leaves along the sidewalk to dance in a tornado. Mom was leading the way, her profile creating a faint shadow like trail mark as the sun gradually dipped into the skyline. Her posture was straight, face uprisen and inaudible chants underneath her breath, something she does in order to simmer down the hysteria.
Ash strolled beside me - too close, might add - hands in his bomber jacket's pocket and an uncomfortable frown stretching over his lips.
His bare presence was enough to double that burn on my cheeks and warm my heart altogether, kinda like he was my hot water bottle in these unbearable winters, My cornerstone.
The shrine fell on the trajectory that led to tokiwa city - extensive stairs and a red torii gate at the entrance - as far as my memory recalls. It would have been different if we were in Kalos, We must have stopped by the cemetery there for paying respects instead. But because this year mom happened to have obtained an illustrator's post in Kanto, the circumstances were quite out-of-the-way.
