"If her mother loved her, why leave her on someone else's doorstep?"
Isn't it odd, how one's death seems to always reflect one's life?
Humans would probably consider this a cruel joke, ironic. I, however, think it is a nice sentiment. After a life of experience, why not just let it out with a burst of color? A color that stains the sky, and is never the same twice.
I don't precisely know what determines the color. The dead person's life experience? Their last thoughts?
That doesn't matter. What does matter is that I have worked since creation, and have not seen two colors identical to each other.
Well, that's not true. There was one person, one who was the catalyst in our mutual friend's story, yet whose own story remains untold. You know who I'm talking about, don't you?
The book thief's mother.
First
One life for another. Seems fair.
For two particular humans, this was the most unfair thing that could have happened.
The father, a tall, stoic man, cried, of course. So did the child, but not for the same reason. Not yet.
The sky was blue, clear blue, like the rain that washes away suffering and brings despair. Does never having a mother to take care of you excuse you to leave your own child with strangers?
Of course not.
Second
The funeral was very short, and the sky remained transparent blue, refusing to become gray and rainy as it always seems to be in the movies. Why is that?
I stopped and, however hypocritical it may be, offered a prayer for two souls, the one who had so long ago stood in the blue, streams skirting his face, and the one who had wailed in his arms.
One was at peace now. And the other?
She stood to my left, blue eyes staring straight ahead. A man was holding her, the one with the dangerous eyes and ideas. Then, she turned and looked straight at me.
Her eyes were the same color as that day. Down to the last tint.
Where it began.
Where it ended.
I took the man's soul and carried it off into the blue.
Does losing a father when a mother was already lost long ago excuse you to leave your daughter to live with a foster family?
No.
Fourth
You remember the third time I saw her. It was the First time I saw the book thief. But that is another story. Let's move on.
Blue. But it was not the same.
The sky was darkened- tainted- by the slightest bit of black. When she opened her eyes, they, too, were unnoticeably but blatantly darker than the previous blues. Her soul was not sitting up, but she recognized me and allowed me to carry her away.
I did not talk to her, the soul with the tainted eyes, and she did not talk to me. Perhaps that was for the best.
I never knew why she acted as she had. I have theories, of course, but none of them are probable. None of them explained the inexplicable, terrible, wonderful thing that endlessly torments me.
As hard as I try, I can never understand humans.