He packs his trunk, all the while wondering who this shirt belonged to? These pants? They were all hand-me-downs.
He wears the man's clothes. The jacket's too big for him.
He cries. Silently. He's afraid his mother might hear him. He knows she'd cry too if she heard. He doesn't want to hurt her.
She's in the hall, smiling, when she sees him. Hugs him. She smells warm, like the food she cooks, the love she gives away. He says he'll miss her. He'll miss her all the way out the door, out of town, out of the life he used to live.
Ship's a-waiting. It's called the Legacy. He wonder's if he'll be living the man's Legacy. Or will he leave one of his own behind? The possibilities stretch to infinity in his mind. He's just a boy.
His heart races – pounding – threatening to overflow from his chest as the ship blasts off. The wind greets his face at mach three. His lips are blow up and out like a smile, a grimace, a Cheshire-cat grin. And in that moment he has dissolved into the Etherium itself. He no longer exsists; he's a million teensy-tiny particles, flying on a zephyr and his mind has blown away. Nothing lives but joy.
The ship slows down. All the pieces come back together, drawn back into position, the gloom returns. His mind returns.
He remembers the day the man left. He was just a boy. Walked out silently through the door, into the stinging cold November morning, and onto a boat tied to the docks. He sees his son running after him. "Go home, Jim!" The boat takes off. His son coughs on the exhaust, crying his lungs black. He doesn't look back the whole while.
The cyborg smells warm. He smells like grease and body sweat. He smells like a million adventures. He can see it in the old man's mechanical eye.
"Jimbo,"
In the next eight months, he's given a new name. Jimbo. It sounds fat. He loves it.
It's raining a trillion-billion raindrops outside. It's raining a trillion-billion raindrops in his eyes. The cyborg pulls him close, into a warm fold of fat.
"You's sad, Jimbo," It's not a question. He's just a boy. He loves it. He loves the cyborg. There's been a hole inside his heart, gaping and torn out five years ago. He buries his face into the old man's jacket, into his fats, into his heart. He's filling up slowly, warmly.
They both are.
*
His eyes are dry now. His heart is full – patched up – no longer overfilling, no longer empty.
"Five minutes, James," The Captain returns her hat to her head, solemnly, and walks away. There's nothing left.
The man who ran away years ago, who never looked back, on the stinging cold November morning, is now six feet below his boots. His face is two feet high.
"Hey, dad,"
He sits on the grass, addressing the tombstone. There is no overfilling, no emptiness. They are eye-to-eye now.
The shirts that used to be his. His son wears them now. Wearing them to greet the man that walked out through the door. Out of town. Out of the life he used to live.
"Mom cried the day you left, dad. It was the first thing I saw – mom on the table, crying like the world was forcing everything out of her chest. Do you know what that feels like?
"I was so scared. I didn't know what to do. I was scared to go home – to face the woman you left behind. So I ran under our bridge, just sat there the whole day, just skipped rocks like you taught me." Skipped rocks. Skipped responsibility. Skipped life.
"I bet you were scared, too. Your heart felt like it was gonna overflow. You felt that if you could just get out of that house… you wouldn't exist anymore. You'd just be a million particles and you wouldn't have a care in the world…"
He stops. He takes his hat off. A Captain's hat. He lets it rest over the two-foot-high face.
"I understand."
His smile is lopsided, genuine. His heart feels full. Just right. Whatever happened couldn't be revered. It could just be understood.
His father died free. A million teensy-tiny particles, riding on a zephyr and his mind has blown away. Nothing lives but joy.
He was just a boy.