When Life Gives You Zucca
It was a mistake to have come here.
The shred of hope they clung to for their youngest son died when Bialar Crais showed up at their doorstep. For the past two arns his mother's tears vacillated from joy one moment to despair the next. He should have left them their dreams.
Even now as they sat at the table for their first meal together in over fifty cycles the empty chair across from him served as a constant reminder of his failure. Every time he glanced up, he caught his mother staring at him from the kitchen as though he'd disappear if she took her eyes away. Quite the opposite, his father avoided his gaze. It was hard to judge which was the more painful, the lengthy pauses in the conversation between them, or the conversation itself.
"I suppose you have traveled a great deal."
"Yes...extensively." To hell and back if the truth be known.
"Did you do much fighting?"
Mother cast him a harsh look from the kitchen. "Bialar did not come home to talk about fighting."
He shrugged. "I was a soldier. It was expected."
Father nodded. He massaged his chin between his thumb and forefinger, the silence stretching uncomfortably. "Do you blame me?" he finally asked.
The son's expression was question enough.
This time Father did not look away. "For letting them take you."
"You had no choice. They would have killed you both if you'd resisted and then taken us anyway."
A lifetime of guilt...absolved in a single microt. The elder Crais' shoulders straightened a bit.
"Do *you* blame me?" Bialar asked, his eyes fixed on the vacant space across the table from him.
"You say he grew to be a fine man?"
A quick nod. "He did. He was not afflicted with my...ambition."
Father laughed briefly. "My Tauvo never had to get stitches to find out that a baby speckled snake had teeth, or scar his hand to know that a laser torch was hot. No...he was quite content to let you find out for him." His brow suddenly creased. "Tell me, did the two of you remain friends?"
"Always."
"Your younger sisters will be eager to meet you," Mother called from the kitchen.
"Three, you say?"
His father snorted. "Living in a house with four women, it's a wonder I kept my sanity at all."
A scoop of zucca splattered onto his plate. "My hearing is still good, old man." She served her son a substantial helping of the stringy boiled gourd with less velocity.
Father's back snapped straight, his voice amplified. "What's wrong with you, old woman? You know the boy doesn't like zucca. He never has." For the first time the old man's eyes sought his, the dark twinkle and the wink he remembered so vividly, there again.
With a contented smile, Bialar Crais scraped the odious vegetable to the edge of his plate.
It felt good to be home.
It was a mistake to have come here.
The shred of hope they clung to for their youngest son died when Bialar Crais showed up at their doorstep. For the past two arns his mother's tears vacillated from joy one moment to despair the next. He should have left them their dreams.
Even now as they sat at the table for their first meal together in over fifty cycles the empty chair across from him served as a constant reminder of his failure. Every time he glanced up, he caught his mother staring at him from the kitchen as though he'd disappear if she took her eyes away. Quite the opposite, his father avoided his gaze. It was hard to judge which was the more painful, the lengthy pauses in the conversation between them, or the conversation itself.
"I suppose you have traveled a great deal."
"Yes...extensively." To hell and back if the truth be known.
"Did you do much fighting?"
Mother cast him a harsh look from the kitchen. "Bialar did not come home to talk about fighting."
He shrugged. "I was a soldier. It was expected."
Father nodded. He massaged his chin between his thumb and forefinger, the silence stretching uncomfortably. "Do you blame me?" he finally asked.
The son's expression was question enough.
This time Father did not look away. "For letting them take you."
"You had no choice. They would have killed you both if you'd resisted and then taken us anyway."
A lifetime of guilt...absolved in a single microt. The elder Crais' shoulders straightened a bit.
"Do *you* blame me?" Bialar asked, his eyes fixed on the vacant space across the table from him.
"You say he grew to be a fine man?"
A quick nod. "He did. He was not afflicted with my...ambition."
Father laughed briefly. "My Tauvo never had to get stitches to find out that a baby speckled snake had teeth, or scar his hand to know that a laser torch was hot. No...he was quite content to let you find out for him." His brow suddenly creased. "Tell me, did the two of you remain friends?"
"Always."
"Your younger sisters will be eager to meet you," Mother called from the kitchen.
"Three, you say?"
His father snorted. "Living in a house with four women, it's a wonder I kept my sanity at all."
A scoop of zucca splattered onto his plate. "My hearing is still good, old man." She served her son a substantial helping of the stringy boiled gourd with less velocity.
Father's back snapped straight, his voice amplified. "What's wrong with you, old woman? You know the boy doesn't like zucca. He never has." For the first time the old man's eyes sought his, the dark twinkle and the wink he remembered so vividly, there again.
With a contented smile, Bialar Crais scraped the odious vegetable to the edge of his plate.
It felt good to be home.