I Don't Know Who I Am

[Sunsets over Moonlight]

. . .
2114 AC, Uner, dated to not forget the year. How many autumns? Forty-two still. The Luminary, heir, author, poet, exorcist, mother- sits as none of those things in their study, writing, writing, writing...
. . .
 

Today reminds me of the celebration I held for my son when he turned three years old. I celebrated the turn of their births every year, each more grander than the other because I don't know when I was born. I don't even know exactly how old I am now. I want them to know and feel all of the love that I could not.

Earlier in the week, I was walking down Faoi street in the western corner of Pekeo and happened upon a boarded up building on a quaint corner. It wasn't like that some time ago- I suppose I don't know what my definition of 'some time' is. I remember when my son turned seven years old and my youngest was a few months away and I brought them here. An elderly man operated and owned the building for decades and his daughter was young, maybe in her early twenties doing what she can. We spoke sometimes and I could tell she did not love the store as much as her father. It was a bookstore called [ ].

My children picked out three books of their choice each time. The only caveat was that each book had to be a different genre. My youngest enjoyed books with a lot of illustrations while my son liked longer books whose prose could soothe the soul of any who read it. I always purchased books from the secondhand pile or works produced in languages other than common. It was through the elderly owner that I got in touch with the book collector who specialized in ancient texts. Nothing grand, mostly recipe books, journals, essays, poetry.

Sometimes, I brought my husband there, just the two of us. We would walk the aisles and sit in a little nook, me talking, him listening. He always listened- or maybe I talk too much. I planned to show my [ ] one day. Maybe he knows about this hidden gem already and the elderly man was blessed in the past. I cannot tell. Maybe it wouldn't be boarded up like it is now.

When my son was turning three years old, it was a series of original illustration in the bookstore that inspired the gift I made for him. An artist by the name of [ ] who had original copies of their pyrography work available caught my eye. On the little wooden shelf sat an image of a carriage burnt into a smooth slab of pale wood. It was adorable. I paid the price of the original copy, went home, dug out the yarn from a drawer in my study and tried to mimic the shape of the carriage.

In my spare time, I tried other mediums other than writing. Crocheting and embroidery became staples of mine that I usually kept to myself and out of conversations with friends. They would want to see it or ask about it, then I would have to perfect it rather than enjoy it. It took me two weeks to crochet a shabby looking carriage for him. The top was purple, wheels big and brown. I made other things, too. I baked a small cake and my family gathered around once the day arrived and sang and clapped and prayed and ate the meal I prepared. He smiled so much that day. What a happy boy he was.

The bookstore owner passed away due to health complications, his daughter told me. She never had the heart to take up his passion, so she shut it down. To cover the expenses of the service, she sold the entire inventory to various sellers or got rid of what was unwanted. I did not find out until two years later. He never seemed unwell. He could control a bit of mana, so I figured certain ailments were beyond him; I was wrong. I didn't know what to say to her other than condolences. I wish I went sooner and treated him myself. He knows me. Everyone in Delphina knows me yet he wouldn't ask for my help. What is the point of my skills if I cannot help those in need? What is the point of my wealth if I cannot aid those without it?

I was reminded of when my son turned three years all of a sudden.