I Don't Know Who I Am

[ry0un0suke]

How many, little sun? How many passed, how many left.

. . .

Dear little sun,
 
Who put on the shoes with a flat, skinny heel, toe wrapped in plush bows, wore shorts that bloomed like a big flowers, ends hanging a delicately woven lace built by handy spiders. You got your favorite shirt that you never wore because no occasion felt right for his gift to you. No occasion rich or important or just, until now. One of your own design, because rarely did the kingdom erupt on that summer day, but you know. Today was special because you say it is so. Before he arrived at home, you tidied the house more than usual, employing luminescent bugs into jars, lining the brass bottom in flowers, each adorned in one fitting for the season: beaming saniskrti, like the sun you are.
 
There is time before the lock clicks, so you combed your memories, thinking of what he loves most. By the seaside where tropical fruits grow best, so you went to the coastal market with enough coin to fit in your hands and prestige to your name. On the table, an assortment of golds and reds and silvers, and the merchant laughed a hearty laugh, giving you a bag of mangos and extra, telling you to tell papa he gives his regards. Everyone knows papa, everyone knows you.
 
So you went home, mangos chopped, careful of your little digits, the knife sharp as you. Pineapple skinned, cut into lines, its yellow, tangy shape pressed into little stars using the molds hidden in the cupboards. The mangos carved into leaves, at least they looked like it against the pineapple's star shape, beckon the stars, little sun. You shine so bright in the fruit's reflection.
 
All laid on a platter down the path of jarred glowing bugs you scattered, leading from door past the foyer and paintings hung on high ways, down where the retainers gather, past the guest seating and into his most used study.
 
The door clicks, knob turning and you scatter, moth beckoned by moving light, light of your world. Little heels click, hiding at the end of the lit path through the shared home and he calls your name curiously, concerned, but you hide, answering only in a genle shut of the door. By the front, he rustles, peeling away the layers of summer even if winter shines like line on blanketed snow. His steps, larger, older, follow the path you left. All watch, the cooks, the retainers, resisting a polite giggle or two.
 
And it opens.
 
And little sun, there you are, platter of fruit on a little table clothed in a pressed, velvet sheet. You're standing, pose prepared, rehearsed, jumping up to extend your arms wide. Overjoyed, you utter some thanks before the fruit, not for it or even the heavens above, but him.
 
Silence lingers, the glowing dim light from the bugs brightening the room and reflecting off of the fruit's shine, showing off that special shirt for a special occasion. You say to him, "Happy birthday, Papa." A day that should mark every calendar of every household, a special holiday celebrated by the masses. Hold the love of every citizen in papa's kingdom, every thanks and appreciation possibly uttered, every gesture and language and expression present in the delicate cutting of mangos and pineapples.
 
Little sun, there is no day more important than this.
 
Sincerely,
ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ