The Hamiltons moved upstate. I imagine they couldn't bear the idea of remaining in the place their son lived while he did no more. A part of me wished to still have them around. I yearned to see Philip in each of them, but another, more rational one, knew that them not being present was for the best, both for them and for me.
I spent the next few months continuously dumbfounded and nonplussed. Thankfully, I could attribute it to the fact that my father had announced that he was going to run for president. That alone would have been a load to process, anyway. My family seemed to understand. They gave me my space, and blamed my absentmindedness on the stress that a presidential campaign like the one my father intended to carry out would imply.
One day at a time, I decided to change my mindset. The choice was one that crept like a tremor, silent at first, but firm and definitive in the end. I would no longer wait for things. From that day onward, I would walk towards them. I would attempt to get them.
Up until then, waiting had only left me with an incredible amount of wasted time and people taken for granted. As much as I understood why I needed to wait before, it was not something for me anymore.
Waiting gave me beautiful memories. It gave me laughter and haven; it gave me the warmth of sunlight. But it wouldn't give me anything else. My luck was over.
I immortalized the aster in a small, glass frame. There, it became dry, but never less beautiful, just like my memory of him, and the sorrow, and the grief.
Life became different once I considered anything to be within reach. Once I decided I could attempt to get a hold of anything. It was full of moments of bravery, and also of undying fear. At least, it felt like life.
And if I ever needed a pause or a moment to gather strength, I always had the clouds in the sky to look up to.