I Don't Know Who I Am

[Sunsets over Moonlight]

. . .
Forty two autumns and a letter addressed to a peculiar name sits on the heir's desk, trapped amongst the balled up papers, the ripped papers, the opened books, the sticky notes, the crumbs, the stains, the-
 . . .

Dear, little sun,
 
Who cannot hold their papa's hand tight and cower behind his legs when a strange nears. Little sun, whose hair they tie on their own, butt not sat on a stool, face towards a mirror and his shadow right behind. No brush slides through the silvery-blonde in loving learning, O little sun how they learnt well on their own. Two strong feet have kept them tall, kept them balanced, kept them here, alone. Little sun, their puffed out chest and mimicked steps, forever trailing in the thick prints their papa left before he did. They who burns so bright and small, the tears streaming down round cheeks like balls of hurled fire that fizzle out soon enough. Dry the tears, papa is not home to wipe them. When will he return? They and I can only wonder- longingly, as all revolved around them so, when will the cosmic bodies draw nearer? The distant suns shine so bright, much like papa. Too far, too far, too far. Fret not! Time alone is time busy and well spent. Lay on your bed, distant, sun-bound child. Feel the rays embrace you so while he is away. Listen to the birds and wind singing as he would, the soothing sort of sound that eases your unfamiliar soul. When laying and reading becomes boring, sneak into his study and eye the work you cannot understand. Letters bound to who-knows-where written to who-knows-who, but it is his. Curly, straight, line winding vines found itself onto the page. Blessed are you, this papa of yours.
 
Little sun,
 
Carve a space on his shelf and make it your own. The bottom one, the tips of your toes cannot bring you to the highest, even the middle. Dust off the time that lightly coats the spines and stack your own in its place. How will your organize your collection, I wonder? Not by size nor height nor page count- but year of publication. The increasing numbers fascinates your growing mind. Papa will be proud. You know it. I know it. He knows it-
 
Little sun,
 
Papa is coming home soon. Clean the house top to bottom. Stack the dishes, make sure nothing breaks! Scrub the floors, dust the curtains, polish the books and- he'll be there so soon. Prepare his slippers at the door and don't forget to reach out and take his bag. Ask him how his day was and listen well. The shoes he slips off are yours to fill. Yours to fill, little sun. The war papa sits within is frightening, is it not? The papers speak as much in words you do not understand. Lonely nights get lonelier and lonelier, fearful of his return. So find a book once he settles and crawl atop his lap. Open it to your favorite page and plead, with the prettiest of pleases, for him to read it in his voice that sounds like the wind and birds and the water and flowers.
 
Little sun,
 
Your papa loves you most and I love you more.
 
Sincerely,
ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ