Kaveh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ohthehumanities) wrote2023-07-10 07:20 pm
ohthehumanities) wrote2023-07-10 07:20 pm
Entry tags:
memshare: mother and father
This is a house in which words are not necessary.
Your mother and father sit close by as you arrange your blocks. You're a little old for these now, but to you, nothing is better than this: sitting on the plush carpet as your mother works quietly on her blueprints at her desk, while your father points at the constellations he's projecting on the ceiling, telling you their stories.
Despite your young age, you know this is the meaning of a "home."
"I'm glad we got this device finished in time for the Championship," your father says. You look up, interested.
"Is that pretty crown the prize this year too, papa?"
"You mean the Diadem of Knowledge? It sure is! Every year, remember?"
You remember. He'd told you about some rich merchant's estate being the prize, too, but you only remember the diadem: the way the gems caught the sunlight as he'd carried you over to look at it, gleaming and sparkling. It reminded you of stained glass, of a rippling ocean, of the beautiful things you and your mother so adore.
"You should compete, papa!"
"What, me?" Your father laughs. "I don't need a prize like that, I'm happy with what I've got right here." He grins, reaching down to pick you up, swinging you into the air and making you giggle. "Or is this your way of saying you want to wear the diadem for a while?"
"No..." you say, unconvincingly. "But you'd definitely win! And it would be fun, right? You like competitions! And the diadem--I mean... mama could wear it too, you know..."
Your father laughs again, this time at your poor attempt at hiding your wishes. "Well... Faranak, what do you think?"
Your mother just hums noncommittally, murmuring something about her aspect ratio. Your father shakes his head, looking at you. Even now, you can recognize the fondness, the love, in his eyes.
"You know, why not." Your father smiles, so brightly--brighter than the stars he loves so much. "Let's see if we can't win you that Diadem, Kaveh."
-
Time shifts, blurs. The scene changes.
You are in the same house. You aren't much older--a few months, maybe a year. The room, which had been so warm and bright, is cold and dark, now. The curtains are pulled tightly shut. Your blocks have been tucked away.
Your mother's desk is blank, untouched.
She spends most of her time on the sofa, now. She barely speaks. Most days, she simply stares at her trembling hands in silence, sitting alone in the dark.
You know, without a doubt, that you did this.
Miss Faranak? I have some bad news about your husband. You may want to sit down...
...the Championship... we found him out in the desert...
You sit with her, when you can. You coax her, as gently as you can, into eating, drinking. You cannot persuade her to live. But you do your best to ensure she survives. If nothing else, you must do that much.
You've locked your own grief away, because you can't burden her with that. Not after you got your father killed because of your own selfish desires. You are the one who did this to her--the least you can do is assure her that you're fine, that you can take care of yourself, that she doesn't have to worry about you.
But this is the inexorable truth:
Your family will never be whole again. And you have no one to blame but yourself.
Your mother and father sit close by as you arrange your blocks. You're a little old for these now, but to you, nothing is better than this: sitting on the plush carpet as your mother works quietly on her blueprints at her desk, while your father points at the constellations he's projecting on the ceiling, telling you their stories.
Despite your young age, you know this is the meaning of a "home."
"I'm glad we got this device finished in time for the Championship," your father says. You look up, interested.
"Is that pretty crown the prize this year too, papa?"
"You mean the Diadem of Knowledge? It sure is! Every year, remember?"
You remember. He'd told you about some rich merchant's estate being the prize, too, but you only remember the diadem: the way the gems caught the sunlight as he'd carried you over to look at it, gleaming and sparkling. It reminded you of stained glass, of a rippling ocean, of the beautiful things you and your mother so adore.
"You should compete, papa!"
"What, me?" Your father laughs. "I don't need a prize like that, I'm happy with what I've got right here." He grins, reaching down to pick you up, swinging you into the air and making you giggle. "Or is this your way of saying you want to wear the diadem for a while?"
"No..." you say, unconvincingly. "But you'd definitely win! And it would be fun, right? You like competitions! And the diadem--I mean... mama could wear it too, you know..."
Your father laughs again, this time at your poor attempt at hiding your wishes. "Well... Faranak, what do you think?"
Your mother just hums noncommittally, murmuring something about her aspect ratio. Your father shakes his head, looking at you. Even now, you can recognize the fondness, the love, in his eyes.
"You know, why not." Your father smiles, so brightly--brighter than the stars he loves so much. "Let's see if we can't win you that Diadem, Kaveh."
-
Time shifts, blurs. The scene changes.
You are in the same house. You aren't much older--a few months, maybe a year. The room, which had been so warm and bright, is cold and dark, now. The curtains are pulled tightly shut. Your blocks have been tucked away.
Your mother's desk is blank, untouched.
She spends most of her time on the sofa, now. She barely speaks. Most days, she simply stares at her trembling hands in silence, sitting alone in the dark.
You know, without a doubt, that you did this.
Miss Faranak? I have some bad news about your husband. You may want to sit down...
...the Championship... we found him out in the desert...
You sit with her, when you can. You coax her, as gently as you can, into eating, drinking. You cannot persuade her to live. But you do your best to ensure she survives. If nothing else, you must do that much.
You've locked your own grief away, because you can't burden her with that. Not after you got your father killed because of your own selfish desires. You are the one who did this to her--the least you can do is assure her that you're fine, that you can take care of yourself, that she doesn't have to worry about you.
But this is the inexorable truth:
Your family will never be whole again. And you have no one to blame but yourself.