Forecast: Clearer Skies

イーゼルは月、太陽および星の約束の衰退した壁を飾る

~*~*~

"Do what you can, with what you have, where you are." Sometimes, if that's all you can accomplish-or can do it only to get within a fraction of an inch to what you dream about most, then substitutes aren't so bad. A tot captures fire on paper.

~*~

Bonjour, everybody. As of late, my family has been caught up in a squabble or two....*Winces.* But while there really isn't much hint of a compromise anytime soon, I believe things have died down somewhat. That thought was the motivator for this oneshot-as was a very dear friend of mine, who always locates a glow in the "scum and muck of things." For there is always one to be found.

*Hugs.* Thank you...niisan.

Anyhoo, please, take care, everyone.

~*~*~

Quote:

"No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit."

My breath momentarily catches in my chest as I exhale, the soft sigh spilling into the room as my whiskers twitch from the reluctant smile threatening to take form on my visage.

As of right now, tis difficult to know where I stand-most likely upon the brink of exasperation and gentle amusement. I step into the room, my gait silent as my eyes flicker over to Leonardo's curled up figure on the hearth rug, an old marker still caught in his loose grip as the yellow crest upon my son's chest peacefully continues to rise and fall.

Raphael is next to him, snoring lightly. There are several crumpled up papers before and behind him, and I can only assume that whenever a certain piece of art that he'd been crafting had gone poorly, he'd responded by immediately crushing the small piece of page into a tiny ball before immediately seizing a new piece, and began to vigorously draw again.

This time, the smile makes its ready pace to my features as I bend down in the dim light. I squint at the soft barrage of color that was upon Leonardo's paper-with half of his face buried within it.

It is hard...to tell what Leonardo might have been drawing. Considering that they must grip an appendage to continue their doodling with only three fingers to properly support the pen, my sons draw rather well-particularly Michelangelo. My eyes swivel to my youngest son across the room, who is murmuring in his sleep about....well, it seems to be an indiscernable mixture of whatnot, but I hardly have time to muse about that at the moment as I stoop, and begin to lightly prod at my son's shoulder.

"Michelangelo?" I whisper. I continue to shake him, but the sleepy turtle only curls deeper into his warm little ball, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like pizza toppings, and his breathing becomes deep and peaceful once again.

I shake my head and smile in the dim light. Heh. It DOES seem a veritable shame to wake him....

Grunting lightly, I gently scoop up the small turtle, tucking Michelangelo's legs in as his head lolls to the side ever so slightly. I smile fondly once again as I draw out of the living room, opting for the small room a few feet away from the door. It seems I will have to make a few trips-as my sons are hardly able to all squeeze into a coffee can anymore.

I still have the old coffee container. More out of nostalgia then anything else, I was unable to throw it away, as it IS my sons' first cradle-even if it does smell of old mocha coffee beans.

A light twinge reverberates inside as I awkwardly step inside the stone archway, careful to avoid banging Michelangelo's head upside the entrance frame. Though I doubt even that would wake him, I certainly wouldn't want to do something of the sort to my son, in any case.

I lower Michelangelo into his small bunk, and quietly tuck the sheets about him. He does little in response-other then snuggle into the pillow, and continue to softly breathe in and out.

Sometimes, I do wonder where Michelangelo gets half of his energy during the day....though, it is-under any circumstance-almost impossible to wake him during the night. I manage another smile, place a graying palm on my son's bandanna, and quietly shuffled from the room.

Without too much effort, I also retrieved Raphael, and heaved his small form upwards as I again departed the room, noting the small smudges still about his small hands. They would all need a good rinsing, come tomorrow....

Still musing, I again came through the archway, and again quietly strolled to the small bedding that was Raphael's. Without much further ado, I carefully tucked the red-clad turtle under the covers, watching him mumble absentmindedly before resuming his dozing.

His face was quite calm. I enjoyed seeing it as such. If only he could feel so at peace while he was awake....

With a sigh, I merely watch him for a moment, my fingers tracing light lines about his shell before they travel to his cheek. He leans into the touch, lets out a soft sigh, turns, and sleeps on.

That's two down....

Once more, I depart the room, glancing absentmindedly at the clock Donatello had retrieved and repaired as I do so. I am no longer surprised that my sons fell asleep while I had been meditating-it's quite late. After supper, my sons had been, perhaps-a bit keyed up in their horseplay, so I had suggestively tugged out the old, slightly ripped cardboard box full of random art supplies that were still salvagable from the sewer canals.

That had gotten their attention. I set my four year olds in the den with the box, sternly admonishing them not to argue over who got what. I heard enough of Michelangelo and Raphael squabbling about the sort as it was.

I had left to climb for a higher plane...and, with some rarely begotten peace, I had settled into the steady throb that was the universal heartbeat.

Time went by....

~*~*~

When I had come out once again, my sons had fallen asleep in their doings. I suppose it would have been just as well if I had simply woken them, and quietly directed them to bed-but the action seemed superfluous at best. Silly. And, I had more then my fair share of experiences of having one turtle wake during the night-and unable to sleep once again. They insisted upon walking about the lair, usually waking the others in their stir....leaving four very tired, quite cantankerous turtles in the morning.

I wince. Once they have woken, it's quite hard to get them to slumber again-particularly should one be having nightmares. Leonardo came to me just two nights with a ghastly one, and so, I amended my usual rules-and allowed him to wriggle in beside me during the night. The poor thing certainly looked frightened.

Speaking of which....

I quietly pick up Leonardo, whose face is still pressed into what could...either be Aurora Borealis or a rather oddly colored upturned Top Hat. It is hard to tell which.

Leonardo lets out a soft noise-and I freeze instinctively as he begins to wiggle slightly in his odd new position.

But, the moment passes, and I slowly finish scooping him up, careful to avoid scratching him with my claws as I turn, grinning once again as I consider his latest masterpiece. More then often, one of my sons comes running to me with a piece of artwork-and I must gently ask them to tell me more about the picture as I praise them about the...usually unknown vertex of shape and color. Normally, they're all too eager to oblige, and I need not risk hurting their feelings by pondering aloud what it is.

I need not to, anyway. It always ends up strewn on the wall by a bit of tape or something. I head for the bedroom again, and adjust the pillow lightly before tucking Leonardo in.

His eyes flicker underneath the lids-but he otherwise does not move. I sigh in relief, smooth his forehead, and move the covers near his chin before departing the penultimate time.

Donatello lies, perhaps-a little separately from the others, near a haphazard stack of old shoe boxes leaning up against the wall. I ponder this for a second or two with a light frown. Why would my son tug those out of the closet? Normally, he only did so when he was attempting to reach something rather high up.

I reach for him-and pause. There is no artwork near Donatello. Perhaps he did not feel like drawing tonight?

Ah, well. It was of no consequence. I tugged Donatello into my arms, noting his gentle breathing, and occasional twitch of the mouth. Was he dreaming about something pleasant?

I turn-and stop in my tracks as something white upon the ceiling catches my attention.

Several white, retangular patches splashed with colored chalk dust, held fast by several untidy dabbings of tape. I hitch Donatello closer, and squint lightly in the darkness, attempting to make out what Donatello had drawn.

After a moment, I recognize what my son was attempting to recreate-and my heart either leapt, or sank. It may have done both.

I step closer.

There is the Sun-or as much as one can create with chalk-with several untidy lines sticking out from the large, golden orb. My claw tips brush against the chalk drawings, in spite of myself.

There are the moon and stars. Nothing like the constellations Master Yoshi and Teng Shen used to point out to me in the Ancient One's compound-but very carefully crafted amongst the scribbled indigo I took to be the night sky.

I move to another drawing.

It looks like Donatello had fashioned this one to look rather like a open window, complete with a few clumsily drawn flower boxes around the seal, and what I believe are magenta curtains.

The Moon is crooked, but Donatello had eagerly shaded that one in with several hues of gold and canary-yellow. Many puffy clouds adorn the next sky-blue one-completed with a small rainbow and several "V" shapes I took to be birds.

Another smile fell onto my face, but it was far from a happy one as I quietly departed, Donatello sleeping peacefully, unaware of the vehement bittersweetness.

~*~*~

After tucking my last son in-leaving a small peck on the forehead as I did so-I blinked, realizing all my sons were now in bed. Now rather unsure of myself, I decided to turn in, also.

But not before one last thing....

I thought nothing of looking at the sky whenever Teng Shen worked in the garden, admiring the pools of blue exploding from the heavens-but not drinking in too much of it as Teng Shen busily thinned out carrots while I watched, perched on a nearby rock.

Such things were interesting-and rather thought-provoking, but, in such a form, I did not possess much more then a mere fraction of that mentality-nor too much of my current attention span. The sky was a mere fact of life-something assured to even a former scavenger as I. Any living soul upon the Earth could call it their right to look upon it if they so wished or could.

Or their entitlement.

I sigh-a soft, shuddery sound as I look upon the window-box picture once again.

I assume that my son must have received his inspiration from a book. Or from the TV, maybe. For how else could he have seen it? The closest thing my son has ever had to such a thing is quickly running under a nearby grate-where sunshine occasionally traces her light fingertips inside.

Sadness begins its steady rise, and I turn from Donatello's pictures for a moment.

It is...not fair.

I know how juvenile it is to think so-I have heard my sons mutter this a multitude of times-but I do mean what I say.

It is not fair. My sons cannot even have the luxury of breathing in fresh air, let alone feel sunshine. Or watch stars fall about anywhere but upon the television set.....

Our world consisted of the underground. We could never reside anywhere but underneath the cool, gray stone. That was where fate had beset us in our place. Even if it didn't mean such "entitlements"-as I once cascaded the term-as to what "normal" humans received....

The moment passes, and I exhale, drawing my face into my clawed hand for a moment or so. I lower my hand, and draw it to the enormous Sun that Donatello had constructed, a bit of dust rubbing off upon my fingertip before I slowly draw it away.

The pictures certainly did brighten the place up a bit. I blink. I would have to compliment Donatello on these pieces tomorrow. They certainly had a bit of time pressed in which each chalk-stroke.

I feel the light, tingling sensation glow a bit, and I close my eyes.

He had meant no harm-nor had he meant to recall such memories to the surface. For while I did miss the sunlight I so often enjoyed while I was perched upon Master Yoshi's shoulders while the two of us were sitting by the pond's side in the park-while I missed Teng Shen pointing out the newest shift in the cycle while I rode along in a basket full of turnips heading for the kitchen on a clear Summer's night-and while I most definitely missed being under a tapestry of stars dotting the midnight sky in the cool grass alongside my Mother and Father-

I would hardly trade what I do have NOW to simply depart. I am fairly certain....that getting out of the city would be difficult, but doable-should I have decided to leave. I have done so before.

But alongside the ever present risk of detectment....there would be a new ache in my heart-one that would never allow me to leave. I would never want to. I COULD never go. Not without my sons-and, in any case, our lives are consigned under the city. Nowhere else. That, I am sure of.

But I suppose that's beside the point. My sons are my own light. My own glow, underneath the city streets.

And, as at last I turn away from the room to retire, all my senses are ringing with a clarifying finality on the matter still enclosed in my mind:

And that alone, was more then good enough.