The last thing I'd hear every night before I closed my eyes was my father telling me good night.
I remember his voice as he read me tales of the mighty Kensei. It was strong, unwavering, but yet different. Not anything like how he talked to business associates or Mama. Later, Kimiko would tell me that was my father's 'fairy tale voice'.
Every night, right on schedule, my father would open my bedroom door. He would grab the heavy book from the shelf above my desk, pull my desk chair up near my bed, wait till I was ready, and then begin his tale of the brave Kensei. Every night he would tell me these tales, so many nights that soon I could recite the tales back to him if I would like. But I never did have much 'father-to-son' moments, and I quite enjoyed my time with my father.
I would remember his every word, how his voice would change slightly, raising in power as the mighty Kensei would stick his cold blade into strong enemies, and lower it as the beautiful Yaeko would profess her undying love to him. I would stare at his fingers, for every time he turned the page, he would lick his index finger. I could not understand why he did this. Would I lick my finger when I read these tales to my son?
Normally, this act should have been insignificant, or forgotten as I got older. But one night changed this. I remember it clearly, as if looking at the scene as a movie. He seemed different that night, as if something else was one his mind. Halfway through a chapter, he stopped. He was looking out my window, as if he saw something that frightened him. Then, it all went away. His face relaxed and his shoulders straightened.
My father sat up and moved my chair back to my desk. He placed the heavy book back on the shelf, his hand lingering on the spine.
"Papa…" I remember saying, unsure what was going on.
Instead of answering, instead of giving me consolation about what had just happened, my father strode to my bed. He pushed my hair away from my forehead, leaving it nude in the air. Then, he lowered his lips to my forehead. I remember my whole body tensing, I was actually afraid of my father. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth down.
For the longest time he seemed to keep them there, almost hovering over my forehead. But he soon let go, then turned on his heels and left.
I don't remember when we stopped doing this night time ritual. That has escaped my mind. The only thing I remember was the last time he said good night to me. It was the night before I moved out, I believe I was twenty. Mama had been crying all day, happy yet sad that her little boy was growing up and leaving the nest. I was in my room, trying so hard to go to sleep. I don't know if he knew this, or if he really thought I was asleep. But through my half opened eyes, I saw him move the chair to my bed side, open the book of Kensei tales and cleared his throat. Instead of reading out loud, he read to himself silently. I listened to him flipping the pages, remembering my boy hood days. After he had finished, I heard the chair being dropped by my desk and the book placed back on the shelf. Then my door was opened, but it didn't close. I almost got up to shut it when I heard him softly whisper, as if it was a secret.
"Good night, my son."
That was a long time ago. I know that it was so small of a moment, and after everything I've done, everywhere I've been, I know that it should be a simple breeze of a memory. But it isn't. Not when I'm looking at his grave, looking at his name written on that smooth white stone. I could save the future, but I couldn't save him.
"Good night, Papa."