Don’t Let the Sun Come

George hopped from one tile to the other, avoiding the lines in between, and holding his mother’s arm. From an uninteresting, gray nothing, the wall on his left became a window, giving onto a flat yard, filled with asphalt, white lines and airplanes. George thought it must be bigger than the yard next to his elementary school, but couldn’t really guess how much time it would take him to run across it. Baggage and waiting is all he saw there; people leaning on their suitcases, lying on them, standing with them, forgetting them, going to get them. 

Every word he saw written was strange. Partenze. Imbarchi. Attenzione. George tried to remember them all. The kids in his class would be so impressed with his international knowledge.

His mother tugged at his arm. “Come, George, it’s our airplane.”

As the stewardess explained the security measures and other airplane things kids don’t need to know because their parents know everything, George prepared himself for the strange sensation he’d feel in his belly at the lift-off. He compared it to going down the steep hill near his house in a car whenever his dad went fast enough for the houses and trees to become just one big blur.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mom looking at him. “How did you like it here, honey?”

George shrugged.

“I know it’s not ideal, but your dad’s been here a while, and he’d like us to come live with him.”

“Couldn’t he find a job at home?”

She sighed, seeing her hope of not having to explain things to her son shattered. “He tried, George, he tried. But the jobs at home don’t pay well; here he can make more money.”

“Can’t he just keep coming for the holidays?”

“He’s lonely. He wants us to be together again.”

George turned his head as the airplane started moving. He knew the green and yellow fields, the trees and the tiny houses he saw getting smaller and smaller were not that different from what he saw at home, but they belonged to a completely different world.

Something inside George clicked, as he heard the familiar sounds of his own language once they had climbed off the airplane. He remembered the documentary about wild animals he once saw; in it, all gorillas belonged to different groups. They didn’t necessarily fight with each other, but they stayed inside their own groups. 

Gradually, his puffy cheeks spread into a grin, as he kept seeing familiar houses and statues on the road home.

The sunshine danced in a blurry shimmer in the distance just above the asphalt, when the bus had stopped, and they were once again on the road leading to their house. Like a whisper hanging in the air. George kept smiling and turning his head, first to look at his neighbors’ house he saw every morning, then at tree-sprinkled hilltops in the background, then at his mom, to decide whether she felt the same things he did.

They had spent two weeks away from home, or at least George’s mom said so. George had his doubts. He hadn’t looked at a calendar, nor had a phone to check the date, but the idea that all those endless nights and days were the equivalent of just two weeks was ridiculous. He tried thinking about what two weeks felt at school. Usually he’d wake up, get the bus to school, listen to the teachers, make up stories in his mind, think about all the things he’d do at home, get the bus home, play out in the yard or on his computer, occasionally study, go to bed, and repeat. That times fourteen. They did not spend just two weeks out there and he knew it, but had trouble proving it.

His mom’s voice came to him through a haze of thought. A subconscious whisper he wasn’t aware of. “Dad thought we should move in June, at the end of your term.”

Grown grass was the only indicator of their absence. The garage was still there; the house too. The forest didn’t change, nor did the trees in the yard. The empty doghouse was there, and so were the blueberry bushes. Everything was the same, but it had a finality to it now. Just like when you are watching a movie on a computer, and by accident move the mouse, revealing how much time’s left. You think to yourself: it’s okay, I still have half the movie to go, but subconsciously you’re counting the scenes, and praying for the movie to go on forever. It’s your favorite movie. You don’t want it to end. 

George’s mom waved at him. “Come inside. We’re gonna make something to eat.”

He looked at her, turned, and kept looking at the swaying trees.

“Okay, you play outside, honey; I’ll bring you something to bite on when I unpack.”

George kept the fact of his relocation to himself. Otherwise, the other kids might talk to him more, trying to squeeze all they could out of the relationship while it lasted, or maybe less, knowing he wouldn’t be there anymore in some time. He’d be treated differently, and how he was always treated suited him. In fact, he kept most things to himself.

The history teacher waved a paper in front of George’s face. “Very good, George. You studied!” 

The test had been about medieval times. They had learned about king Popiel, who died in a castle tower, eaten by mice. George’s mind spun like a hamster’s wheel whenever he thought about kings and knights. Sitting in class, he mostly imagined himself as a sneaky rogue, wandering around a forest with a crossbow, shooting bandits, saving people, and cooking boars on top of a campfire.

Days kept becoming hotter. The yard around George’s house was greener than ever, with hordes of daisies scattered all around and bees buzzing about. Every day, he went to sleep as late as he could and woke up as early as he managed. He started each morning looking out the window, at the trees dancing in the wind, listening to birds arguing. 

As March evolved into April, and April gave birth to May, George tried thinking about his life, and how it would change, but not having any point of reference to what a change this big meant, he instead wished for the summer not to come. The Indians had their rain dances, to summon heavy clouds; George tried imagining what type of dance would repel the sun and bring back the winter, so he’d have just a couple more months.

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. You’ll have tons of new friends, and since dad won’t have to pay for two houses, maybe he’ll buy you a new computer.” George’s mom caressed the child’s hair. “Everything’s gonna be all right, you’ll see.”

“But I don’t wanna move.”

“Don’t you wanna be with dad?”

George’s chin started quivering. “I wanna stay here.”

She hugged him to her chest and ran her hand up and down his back. “Oh, baby, I know. But we can’t stay here; we lose too much money this way. Italy isn’t that bad: it’s always sunny, they have so much pizza, and—and . . .” She trailed off, thinking about how her life would have to change, too. She’d have to leave everything she had worked for. Leave the house she and her husband built and have cared for. So many years of work lost.

“Can’t we stay a little longer? For the summer, at least?”

She sighed. “I already bought the tickets, made the arrangements.”

All the kids sat around on the desks, dressed up in ironed shirts and polished shoes, chatting with the professor. 

The professor sauntered around the classroom. “Can you believe the year’s already over? What are your plans for this summer?”

“I’m gonna go to New York! I’m going to the Canary Islands! And I’m going to the seaside.” Some kids raised their arm to speak, some said whatever they wanted, others talked quietly with their friends. George sat in the back row, looking at them all, and thought about the fact it was the last time he’d see them.

The professor raised her arm, making silence fall over the room. “And you, Georgie? Your mom told me you’re moving.”

George nodded.

One child turned. “Where are you going?”

“Italy.”

The professor raised and shook her forefinger, smiling. “You better represent us well over there.”

A film came over George’s brown eyes. With one hand under the back of his head, and the other on his chest, he lay thinking, and listening to his mom rushing about the house, checking everything. He turned and looked at the bags in the middle of the living room. He thought maybe if he’d break his arm, they would stay a little longer; maybe a broken finger would be enough.

“Come, George, the taxi’s here!”

He sat up on the bed, but his legs wouldn’t move anymore. All seven dwarfs locked inside the jigsaw puzzle hanging on the wall pleaded with him to stay. His whole body became a magnet that could not detach itself from the bed.

“Georgie! We have to go!”

One limb at a time, he forced himself to stand up. Climbing down the stairs, he bent down and kissed each step he left behind.

“Come, honey. Help me with the bags.”

George promised himself to remember that last drive. The last look at his home, at his neighbors’ houses, at the hazy, green hilltops, with lonely trees scattered all around. As the taxi took them farther and farther away, George let his head fall onto the window, and his eyes follow whatever came into his view for a quick second, then jump onto the next thing. No person they passed knew they were going away forever.