XIX. Tears
The boy is crying. His mother had died the week before, and her funeral was just this morning.
Once he arrived back home, he ran up to his bedroom, climbing into the bed sobbing. His mother was his rock growing up, loving him enough that he never ached for his absentee father. She had taught him how to ride a bike, encouraged him to dream big, and if he wanted her to, she would've brought down all the stars in the sky for him to enjoy.
He thought of her copper hair, smelling of peaches and cream. He remembered her easy smile and how he loved to make her laugh. He reminisced rainy days spent baking brownies; snowy days spent barreling recklessly down the hills; even the occasional vacation to the beach. He summoned up the warmth of her hugs, barring him from life's dangers. Of course, she couldn't protect him from everything. However, when he got hurt she'd help him up and teach him a lesson from it.
The years flew by like that until it was time for the boy to receive his very first Pokémon. Excited and eager for the adventures ahead, he all but rocketed away from the only home he'd ever known, plunging himself into foreign lands, meeting people of benevolence and malice alike, engaging in harrowing trials, and maturing in both body and spirit. But every night, humbled by the glimmering sky, he whispered to himself, "I'm safe and sound and happy, Mom. Don't worry. Good night. Love you."
Somehow, maybe by chance but probably by motherly instinct, she answered, "Stay that way. Good night. I love you, too." And smiling, the boy would settle down and slumber peacefully.
The mantra of his childhood trailed him, soothing him during his travels and hardships. He was grateful indeed for the love so generously granted him, careful never to take it for granted.
One night, the same as any other, he lay down and recited the sacred words etched deep into his heart, awaiting the reply. Seconds, then minutes passed, and the boy grew increasingly anxious, terror mounting. Frantic, he fought the ebbing wave of panic, slowed his breathing, and gently squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment he considered ignoring his despair, but he wisely chose to face the truth.
He calmly, opened his eyes, letting in the shadows of nightfall. Respectful to his companions, he waited until morning to inform them of his immediate departure, but they insisted on accompanying him home; that was the kind of friends they were.
The days preceding the funeral were ones the boy would rather erase from his memory: the dreadful preparations, the ever-present tears, the pity, the condolences, everything. So once the ceremony ended, he slipped apart, finally indulging his bottled up emotions. He cried and railed and cursed whatever god there was. He moaned and hiccupped and beleaguered the fragile soul of his mother for leaving him too soon.
His small, yellow friend entered the room, undetected until he bounded atop the bed. He sat in the boy's knee, licking away the salty tears as they flowed generously. The boy chuckled, a sound hardly audible, but nevertheless his consoler heard it crystal clear. The Pokémon curled up on the boy's lap, satisfied. He was stroked by his trainer, and there they sat in peaceful company.
The boy has not shed a tear since.