The Flames of Change, Procrastination and Expectation

Small and as quiet as a gray mouse, I treaded down the long hall of my father’s mansion. My white socks allowed me to keep up with his leisure pace towards the bottom of our windy staircase, which he could not see without the aid of a flickering candle. My father is fairly old, and with his vision degrading over the years, too many times he had stumbled upon my toes.

As the fresh rays of dawn burst into the living quarters, I found myself ahead of father, already in the kitchen—as usual of every dim smoky morning. Until all the wall torches and candelabras were lit by the flame in his hand, every cold room rose from the night’s lifeless routine, bright white and gold filling my view.

I smiled as he used the same fluttering heat to cook his meal over a gas stove. When it finished, he took to his usual comfortable scarlet spot on hazel legs. His oak eyes glistened in the fireplace’s soul, then my heart warmed when they found mine, sparkling with a kind grin on his wrinkled face.

No, father would never forget about me, I thought. Especially at the sign of my daily gift in his arms, a tasty present trapped inside the tin can—so sweet, so delicious was my breakfast. It always was, for he understood it was my favorite hour and a perfect way to start off my day.

“I wonder if the mailman will arrive at seven,” my raspy father mused when I finished eating. “Melinda, could you watch for me?”

“Of course, father,” I said, my light feet pitter-pattering across the wooden floor. I would never turn him down. My poor old man couldn’t see very far at all, so I had to be his eyes.

Reaching the tallest archway fitted with one pair of adjacent red doors, I turned to the right. Leaning against the window was the coziest chair in all the home, a gentle green on both my stare and bottom. I could only wonder if the same colors felt the same outside, but father tells me often it isn’t as safe as it looks. I would have to fear of being kidnapped or getting lost.

Watching the grandfather clock tick away on the other side of the grand foyer, the big hand neared halfway past six. The soporific sound and swaying were irresistible, forcing me to indulge in a nap. I keep forgetting to tell father of this device—to move it to a location out of my hearing range.

Something metallic squeaked next to me, and scratchy paper slid into the floor. A shadow of a man came and gone, startling me from my restful curl. But it was just the mailman as father expected, leaving me to a quick sense of relief.

I brought a thick envelope back to the living quarter and placed it in father’s lap. “The mailman came.”

He smiled at my good deed. “Thank you, Melinda.”

Then noon arrived, making the halls a little darker than before since the sun was high over the roof. I glanced at father to see his gaze fixed upon the fireplace once more. There weren’t as many stars in his chipper eyes like before.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him from his desk littered with pens and unfinished notes or stories.

He barely nudged his head towards me, only a slight acknowledgement letting me know he heard. “It’s alright, Melinda. It’s alright.” He stroked his frizzed white beard, clearly deep in thought—maybe lost inside the dying flames he was so obsessed with. Then again, he was old, and the hugs he gives me are rarely as warm as the bed I sleep in.

Come dusk, an immense ache ruptured from my stomach. It gurgled outwards a noise, waking father from his couch-slouch slumber. His eyebrows had been stuck, creased and fixed on whatever internal pain I could not see. I could only wonder if he felt the same as I did: hungry and eager for supper.

As his dark irises glided around the room, a tough huff blew from his pointy nose. “Oh dear, I’ve slept another day away.”

Excited by his awakening, I hopped off the chair and headed for the kitchen. Stumbling behind was father. Alike this morning, he cooked, then we ate. Yet, there was a difference that chilled my heart. In his lips was a deep sorrow, drooping with the likeness of the dark bags underneath his eyes.

I tried to comfort him, but he paid me no mind—rather the sealed white envelope in his hand. His limping foot swung past me, pushing him towards the stairs and his bedroom at the top. To the right, he vanished. To the left would be mine, but I wasn’t tired yet.

With a stretch, yawn and sensation of a full warm tummy, I made my way to the foyer. Once back in my favorite green seat, an intense white orb in the sky gleamed. It was large and more illuminate than ever.

So strange, I thought. What a beautiful night.

A bump came from upstairs—assumed to be from father’s room—making me turn away from the window. He was always running into furniture, poor old man.

So strange, I repeated in my mind as I searched for the moon. Where had it gone?

Life was indeed an odd one, father used to say. I accepted the change and moved on, finally to my personal chamber where I’d grow cozy and warm again. For being so high up, it often got a little too warm, while the cool air had a tendency to linger on the first floor. As I drifted into my rest, there was a soothing light; often did I fall into my dreams, dreams of father’s fireplace and all the pretty candles he lit.

Another dawn arose, its initial chill and dim rays rising with my tired self. Father entered my room with a grin. I smiled back and leaped from my soft bed, ready for another delicious breakfast. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, I followed my father down the hall. His candle showed us the way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

The aroma of sizzling meats filled my nostrils. And though I would never know the taste, it made my own sweet breakfast even better. I could swear I truly know the flavor, but I am uncertain.

I drew my gaze away from my food for a moment to see if he was still sad. He sat there, smiling a magnificent one, then looked at me with a parent’s care.

“I wonder if the mailman will arrive at seven,” he said. “Melinda, could you watch for me?”

I finished one last bite. “Yes, father.”

Heading off to the entrance, I dashed past the grandfather clock, its ticking sounds loud in my ears. It was a wonder whether I’d fall asleep again, but as I hopped into the green sofa, I didn’t feel the need to curl up. Instead, I did as father asked and kept an eye on the outside world.

I checked the clock. The big hand reached half past six, and before me, the shadow of the mailman. He slid an envelope through the door with a metallic clink.

In giving father the daily letter, he beamed. “Thank you, Melinda.”

The day went by just like any other, normal and peaceful. And father still dulled as it did, gloom in his face the closer the evening drew.

He woke from his usual nap, my stomach growls disturbing him. “Oh dear, I’ve slept another day away.”

Then, he wouldn’t stop staring at the envelope. Would it open on its own? Was the filled paper package to be his only Christmas present, and he waited until that day just to reveal the contents then?

Later that night, I couldn’t help but think about this as I rested next to my favorite window. Again, the white orb shined so bright in my vision, I could see nothing else. I refused to look away from it and noticed with utmost curiosity that it moved. The moon must have been strong enough to do so. To change.

Yet, it was peculiar and strange for sure. So strange, I thought. So odd, but beautiful.

The light disappeared around the corner, and as always, father knocked something over or bumped into his bed. Poor old man, my dear father, why must you go on to rest without your candle? What if you trip and fall?

Making it up to my bedroom, I did not need any blanket nor coat to keep the chills away. Only sleep would I require, and calming dreams would I desire.

Until the following frigid morning, an unknown energy in me stirred. Like a bubbling soup boiling excitedly for a different mouth to feed, my adrenaline bolstered me out of bed, and my mind raced for something new. I also couldn’t cease thinking about father and headed down the hall before he could meet me.

I greeted him at his door, creaking out wide for me to see his happy and delicate smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, father,” I said as I guided him down the stairs. Upon entering the kitchen, I designated a chair at the table I had never sat in before. I didn’t need to, and though it was a simple difference, it seemed almost fun.

Father placed a heavy ceramic plate in front of me. He poured my meal from the tin can of sweetness onto it, then set it on the counter. “Melinda, you’re so special to me. Why don’t you have a little bite of my breakfast?” He laid a piece of dark red next to the juicy pile I love. I took a nibble, discovering a tasty combination of crisp and tenderness. Finally, something new!

Watching him finish his breakfast early, it still was no surprise that he relaxed in his usual spot before the crackling fireplace. The longer he stared into its flames, the more his happiness fizzled away. From the table, I could hear him mumble. “I wonder if the mailman will arrive at seven.”

Of course, it didn’t seem they’d ever, always on time a half hour early. It was the same course every day, but father couldn’t see well, never truly knowing the time displayed on the grandfather clock. Not that he’d see that, either, for never leaving the living room.

The shadow passed by and, before the envelope hit the floor, I caught it. I would never open it myself to know what was inside, and if I could read, I’d know at least who it’s from. But alas, I could not and brought it to father.

“Thank you, Melinda,” he said.

His gratitude sent me in a cheerful mood, yet it must have been better today since I refused to look if he wore a smile or frown. In my mind, he was happy, and I’d prefer it that way. Even if it was false. Because of this, I danced around the room. I rolled and tumbled, playing in the floor.

Father ruffled his elder beard, now chuckling at my performance he found quite amusing. For the slightest moment, I took his attention away from the fireplace. When I stopped, he rewarded me with a pat on the head.

“You know what? I’ll open the letter tonight.”

And when that time came, after gulping down our filling dinners, he took with him his candle and letter up the stairs. From the foyer, I could see he placed careful steps, spending most of his concern on the written words. Under his arm was a miniature box of red and white—perhaps the gift that came with?

I smiled at the day, which had come and gone with ease, though it had been nice. I’d remember this one well. Except, there was the moving moon again, flashing in my sight before flying around cover.

I figured I’d try to tell father about it before he could shut his door, but it was too late as it creaked to a full close. I waited to hear the bump, to listen for the sudden bang or drop of an item.

Instead, father rushed from his bedroom in a panic, yelling out, “An assassin! An assassin has come to kill me! The letter tells true!”

And in his state of fear and worry, he tripped, bouncing on the steps and flipping over the railing. His fragile body fell to the hard wood floor along with the small candle and box, catching the mansion ablaze.

“Father!” I shouted, frightened by this happening. I leaned against the only way out, unsure of what to do in the misfortune of being unable to leave. Stumbling down the stairs was his pursuer, dark and fast like a shadow that didn’t seem to notice me. As he tried to escape, he tripped over me, slamming his head into the doors—which were now cracked open by an inch.

Both father and his assailant lie on the burning floor, unconscious or, maybe, dead. I walked up to my only family and tried to wake him. “Father, please,” I whined. “Please wake up.”

To my surprise, his eyes widened at the sound of my small voice. He couldn’t stand up, but he could crawl. Yes, crawl outside! Crawl away from death, father! Leave this familiar stranger to the flames of his mistakes he does not learn from. Leave the same boring fireplace that you always cast your happiness into.

And as we left our former home and killer to the strengthening blaze, father’s glistening oak eyes stared up at mine. He smiled. “Thank you, Melinda.”