The Stars Of My Future

(Jun’s POV)

The navy blue background was God’s portrait. To paint the sky, with some ivory black mixed in for realism, God’s stroke on the canvas made a lasting impression in our history as constellations and a symbol of calm. Amidst the sea, tiny specks of light shimmered. God placed them meticulously to catch my gaze. The sky roared in the silence of space, nothing spoke today- not even the crickets. The wind didn’t whisper, nor did it walk- as today was the day of respect. 

The cosiness of the sleeping-bag didn’t make me feel hot, though I was sweating- my mind ran cold of rancid thoughts. The normal numerous bites of the mosquitoes stalled today as they showed mercy- for they will not pierce the skin of those whose mind bled through their eyes, mouths and nose. The empathetic mosquitoes neither bugged nor inched closer to the treehouse. God’s portrait still I saw with my dark eyes. They should glimmer with the stars, but neither did their light nor power caused my pupils to move. Not even God's shine could make them glister.

Standing up, I stare at the wooden planks that travelled linearly till they became a strong wooden beam. The growing old tree’s pillar cut the linear symmetry through the middle. A portrait sized window, where I stood, was the only opening to the outside. Though the air was sufficient, the inside was conquered by a foul-smell. A stench not of the physical but an abstract, of the place between the physical and metaphysical. A stench that didn’t come from my body but my mind.

This same treehouse did take long to build. I walk to the old tree amidst the treehouse. The usual sap was replaced by a salty overflow. The water floods the tree’s trunk where I stood leaning on it, looking at the floor. The old tree stands tall, unlike the one who fell to the test of time. Her ring was still in the treehouse. It hangs off the hook on the trunk where I can’t reach. The golden ring with an emerald was, as her stories say, a testament of her great love. She told me that a walk down the aisle was the way to procure it. But, I didn’t know what that meant. My happiness slowly dwindled as the time kept marching forward. My grandmother’s regal presence was lost to the time. I remembered the last moment, where I grasped her hands- she whispered to me:

“Don’t be sad; Death is to be looked up to.”

Her words echoed in my ears. The dams to the tears slowly closed as the rivers upstream ran dry. My aching back angles itself to stand tall. My hands open, releasing all the pain of being clenched. What does she mean? I pondered upon the mere thought. Death was the end of the line, God knows what was beyond the point of no return. Every neuron in my brain committed itself to solve the meaning of the words. Neither did they get anywhere, nor did I understand anything. It did put a smile upon my face. My face brightened to the comfort that my grandmother didn’t regret her last moments. 

I walked out of the treehouse. With my spirits down, I walked back to my house. My parents didn’t speak to me that day. Midnight, I woke up from my bed to a call. A voice appears in my head. I walked around to find the source. The dark of the night didn’t make me flinch one bit. The words, the lack thereof, made me suspicious of the source- whether it was my own creation. However, as I stepped quietly out of the door, a shadow made me flinch. I caught it at the edge of my vision. As I gave chase, the figure at the end ran too. It didn’t stop until the bridge at the end of the street with familiar houses. 

As I came closer, the figure became more clear. It was a person, more so a child like me. I crept closer, gulping at the thought of being out in the dark and going near a shadowy figure. As my curiosity killed me, I decided to know. Little did I know that it was a local girl. 

“Who are you.” She asked. “I am Jun,” I say. The wind starts to pick up the pace. From a dead silence, it became vicious. The leaves jumped miles from the ground, bringing a trail of dust and soot. She ran further, and I followed her. We went to the other side of the bridge, running down a set of stairs to the river. It roared with the lack of peace. The brutal winds whipped the water as it ran like a horse across its path. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I heard a voice.”

“Ugh! I don’t think you should be here. Please go.”

The waves of the river rose to the docks that we were standing on. A wave crashed into my shoes. “I’m scared.” I started to fear my decision. “Come with me.” She said with a smile, as though she liked being in danger. We ran up the stairs. A downpour ensued after the roaring waves. A storm has arrived. She pulled my hands across the bridge. 

A wolf stands its way on the familiar side of the bridge. I clenched her brave shoulders as we walked towards my home. “Please! Don’t.” I yelped. She took me forward. The rain felt like sharp tools with malicious edges. Each step, we were bombarded with pain. But, she didn’t flinch. Only my grandmother was this courageous. But, here there is another girl with the power to be brave. It makes me feel warm and comfortable. I relaxed a little more on her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” She scolded. What do I say to it? I don’t want her to leave. I didn’t reply, but I stiffen myself. “It’s okay, you can relax.” She said. The wolf, it turns out, was a brave small dog. We made it to the other side. The river roared so fiercely that the dock we were on was completely eaten by the water.

“Go home.” She said with an angry face. I wouldn’t know that I’d see that angry face for the rest of my life.

The floor still makes the familiar creak. Each step made a louder creak. The wood is still intact because of the wax that I had put in. My eyes gaze at the ring at the top of the tree. My grandmother left the ring there before her death, “Only take it once you’re older.” After the night, the treehouse felt more lonely until it became an untitled book on the fringes of the library of memories. But the words echoed in my ears. These familiar phrases returned as death came knocking on my door. She had left the ring for my marriage. But, I had forgotten. As my death comes closer, I remember the glory days when I spent time with my grandmother. 

My old wife comes through the door. Her small figure doesn’t struggle to get through the door. “Is this the place that you were talking about.” I nod. She gazes upon the place of lost adventure. The images of a small boy playing with his grandmother flashed upon her imagination with the childhood photos of the now old man. My hands reach up for the ring. I take the ring off the hook, getting it down to my wife’s wrinkly hands.

“I wish myself and you man and wife,” I said jokingly. She laughs along with me. I give the ring to my wife. “Death is to be looked up to.” I give my own interpretation- know that I finished achieving my dreams of having a warm loving family- there isn’t anything else to achieve but death.

A few days later, I said “Death is to be looked up to,” as I lay on the bed. My last words echoed in the bed. My wife sheds a tear, but the words keep her strong to live on.