“Wakey wakey, darling!” A soft and loving voice called as its owner opened the door. It was mom, smiling in the doorway as the child rubbed her eyes and muttered an “ok”. Warm sunlight flowed in from the open window, the smell of bacon and eggs wafted up from downstairs.
After a short kiss on the forehead, her mother’s footsteps were followed by the creaking of wood down a staircase. The child got up and put on a dress with a nice floral pattern, the newest one she had gotten. She began to brush her hair, happy to see that it was finally growing out. The child looked at herself in the mirror, revelling in the feeling of finally being allowed a few dresses.
As she creaked down the stairs, smiling faces greeted her around a fully stocked table. Her little brother, heartily digging into a bowl of cereal, mumbled a hello between spoonfuls. Dad gave her a curt nod, and mom opened a window to let more air in. A warm breeze carried the wonderful smell of rain-fresh grass, followed by a distinctly rustic scent of wood. The very thought of it excited her: the first apples of the season were ready to be harvested.
She sat down at the table and filled a tall glass of apple juice. Almost a year old, it still smelled fresh from their neighbour’s juice press. Memories of having plucked and carried those apples herself made it taste all the sweeter.
Her parents seemed to be as surprised as always at how fast the apples ripened this year. To her, it felt like it was ages ago. Though she was no longer the same person who had delivered those baskets to their neighbour, she shared some kinship with the way she had once been. A sour kinship, like sharing an underripe fruit, but a kinship nonetheless.
In her reminiscence, her father had finished saying grace. She grabbed a slice of fluffy white bread and ladened it with two strips of bacon and a fried egg. Her mother gently tapped a hard boiled one with a spoon, salting it after opening the top.
Mom looked at their father. “Darling, do you think the hens have gotten better at laying eggs?”
He peeled an egg and plopped the whole thing into his mouth, chewing with a smile as her brother giggled next to her. He swallowed it with a cartoonish gulp, and exaggerated an ‘ahhh’.
“Yeah, I would say they have.” He nudged her elbow. “Must be because of how well you’re feeding them, right, daughter?”
That word sent an indescribable happiness coursing through her. “Yes, I’ve been mixing in some apples with their feed too!”
Dad looked to Mom and gestured between them. “See? Our girl’s already becoming a great farmer, just like her mother!”
“I had some good teachers.” The child added in.
Mom smiled at that, then looked at her daughter’s untouched breakfast. “Go on, eat! We’ve got a big day of work ahead of us.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” The child replied, happily digging into her meal. The bread was incredible.
Her father seemed to agree, reverently holding up a slice. “Whatever we paid for this bread was too little, Vivian. Lamain outdid himself with this loaf.”
“I thought we weren't in the business of tipping our neighbours?”
“We are not, but that man deserves it. He’s a magician with that flour.”
“I heard he travels all the way to Paris to get it.” The child added.
“Oh!” Her mother exclaimed. “That reminds me! We have to pick some flowers for Grandma tomorrow.”
“Lilies?” The child asked. “Can I help?”
Her brother had finished his cereal, and spoke up with a mouth covered in milk. “Can I come too?”
“Of course!” Mother said. “Apples first, though.”
After breakfast, they went down to the orchard. The sun was already in the middle of the sky by now - Saturdays were for sleeping in, after all - so the child put on a wide-brimmed wicker hat she had gotten as a gift from her grandmother. Thankfully, the world was still in the last throes of summer, bringing with it a warming, but mellow sun. Green fields seemed to stretch endlessly around their quaint farmstead, broken only by their orchard, and a forest further south. As they trodded down the pathway to the orchard - between the barn and the chicken coop - Marigold followed them from the doghouse. She was a large dog, but one of the gentlest creatures the child had ever met. Cuddling the large companion would leave her lost in a sea of soft fur, one she rarely longed to leave. Marigold had been her saviour on many a difficult night.
The child went down to give the old dog a hug, and was greeted with a happy smile, a wagging tail, and an eager tongue. She gave her a few headpats, and scratched her behind the ear.
“The apples won’t pick themselves!” She heard from down by the orchard.
“Coming!” She turned to Marigold. “Wanna race?”
Marigold cocked her head to the side, but understood as the child went into a running position. Together, they ran down to the rest of their family.
They were both panting by the time they reached the orchard. The child had actually won this time. Was she just getting older, or was Marigold getting less young? She had been with them for as long as the child could remember. She didn’t like to think about that, though.
Her little brother had already begun shaking some of the nearest trees. Their orchard was relatively large: around 10 trees in total. In the spring, you could lay down on the ground and feel smothered by the cloud of their pink-white petals, forming a thick canopy. That was where she had learned to read, assisted by the occasional falling swathe of pink.
Now, the branches were heavy with crisp red-green apples. They were amazingly sweet, so full of wonderful juice and as crispy as well cooked bacon. They were currently raining down around her brother, still vigorously shaking a branch. Some hit his head, but he didn’t seem to care. He always had been a bit hard-headed.
Mother and daughter picked up the fallen apples, inspecting them for dark spots and worm-holes. Marigold even helped out, occasionally carrying bad apples into the compost. The child was especially proud at having taught her that.
Her father fetched a stepladder from the shed and plopped it down under an especially stubborn branch, ladened with apples like corn on a cob. He waved her over. All of his pockets, of both the thin jacket and the blue shorts, were full of apples.
“So girl, now that you’re getting taller, I think you should pluck this tree.”
She beamed at him. “Really? Awesome!”
“Yeah.” he replied. “Just don’t fall off.” He mussed her hair and picked up the basket she had dropped on the ground.
She climbed up on the ladder and began plucking, tossing the apples down to her father. The sun shone brightly through the leaves, but mellowed out upon encountering her hat, much the same as she had. Her brother had also begun climbing branches to pluck some apples for Marigold, but not before getting a big helmet strapped to his head.
And so they continued on until their father walked back to the house to make some lunch. He came back a while later with a big flannel picnic blanket, a deep wicker basket, and some treats for Marigold.
At the centre of the orchard was a gnarled, thick-trunked conifer. A rope swing hung from its lowest branch, currently occupied by her brother. Father rolled out the blanket underneath the tree, and opened the wicker basket. The child immediately ran over, quickened by the heavenly smell of pancakes wafting from within it. They were wide and thin - a recipe her dad had learned during his time in Norway - and they filled them up with sugar and strawberry jam, fresh from the summer harvest, then rolled them up like a cigar. The taste was divine, made even divine-ier by the last carton of apple juice.
The child stretched her legs out beyond the blanket, to feel the grass underneath. She had taken off her boots a while ago, preferring the feel of grass underfoot to boring old rubber sole. Marigold seemed to agree, nibbling on a toy bone right next to her.
The child stared into the sky as her mother played with her hair. Even in the shade of the tree, its vast blueness was impressive. Other than a few shy wisps of cloud, the sun was alone in that great sea, so impossibly far away.
Did the sun ever get lonely? Did it ever feel out of place, as the child did? When it saw itself reflected in the bountiful waters of the earth, did it see itself in that reflection? Or did it see something occupying the same space as itself, shining with the same light, while still not truly being itself, as the child did? Would it ever get the opportunity to change that, as the child had gotten?
“Do you think the sun ever gets bored?” She asked her mother.
“Maybe.” She replied.
“I would have.”
“Would you? I think it’s pretty noble of the sun to be so helpful to us.”
“I didn’t ask if it was noble, I asked if it got boring.”
“Well, I can’t speak from direct experience, but I imagine it would not. The sun nurtures, child. It made quite the sacrifice, actually. Without it, we would be nothing. But if it had any choice at all, it must have been a conscious one.”
“But don’t you think it would regret it, even if it was done with good intentions? It has to stay around for at least a gajillion years. I think that would suck.”
“I’m not so sure. Yes, it’ll be there for a long time. But don’t you think it would be comforting to know that so many look up to you? Love your arrival and dread your passing? To know that they depend upon you for survival, and to have their eternal gratitude?”
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Just hanging there, casting its light to all who wanted to see. What a great sacrifice it had made. To spend millions of years, what seemed an impossibly large span of time to the child, without any change, without anyone to keep it company. Not that anyone could keep it company, they would burn up within an instant. And so it hung there, gifting its warmth at a distance, incinerating at an embrace.
Marigold rolled over next to her, and the child moved over to give her a big hug, burying her face in the dog’s neck. Mom joined in, and soon enough, they were all cradling the big dog. A wagging tail sometimes bumped into the child’s legs, but she didn’t care. She simply let herself enjoy it for once, moving along with the slow sway of the dog breathing. If only it could last forever.
After a while, Father broke free from the pile, dusting a few hairs from his pants. “Well, I better get started on dinner.”
Her mother looked up from the big pile of fur. “So soon?”
“Yep.” He said. “I’ve got something extra special in mind for dinner.” He gave the child a wink and moved off. Marigold followed him with her eyes and pawed at Mom’s hand.
She gave her a vigorous scratch under the chin and got up. “Well, there are only a few trees left to pick.”
She looked down at her brother, who appeared to be considering nibbling on Marigold’s bone. “And we need a big strong boy to shake down those apples.” She continued.
He got up and flexed his little arms, making a fierce face. Only nine years old, he was growing up quickly. Quicker than his sister did.
Marigold seemed tired, as she just dozed off in the sun instead of helping them. She got up once to chase a few flies, making them all laugh.
As the sun began to lower, the child climbed down from the ladder after having emptied the last tree. Though flush with leaves, they looked oddly barren. A natural consequence of picking apples, of course, but it still felt odd. With them went the summer, and the leaves were left to wither and fall away. In their place came the cold, the dark, and her family was left to fend it off on their own. Luckily, Marigold was warm.
They loaded the crates of apples into a wheelbarrow, and carted them over to the house. All in all, they filled twelve crates. The biggest, cleanest ones were sorted for selling, some were sent into the house, and the rest were marked for juicing.
Dad peeked out through the kitchen window, asking for a few apples, and telling them not to come in until dinner was ready. Her brother immediately darted towards the barn, fetching three wooden swords dad had made for them last year. “Sword fight?” He asked.
The child grabbed a sword. It was well made, with a rectangular handle, a curving crossguard, and a padded blade. Her brother needed two hands to use it properly, but she just used one. He handed one towards Mom. “You too, mommy?” He said, smiling at her with big, pleading eyes.
She smiled. “No, I don’t want to crush you too bad. Besides, winning all the time gets tiring.”
“How about we both go against you, Mom?” The child asked.
“You know,” she said mischievously, “I hear the Queen of Evil got resurrected recently.” She grabbed a sword from the ground, taking an exaggerating stance. “En garde!”
Her brother ran into the barn, and emerged with the big picnic blanket tied to his neck, blowing in the wind like a glorious cape. He rushed over to mom and tried to hit her with a clumsy swing. She blocked it dramatically, taking a step back.
Mom spoke in her best witch’s voice. “You will tremble before me, King! The Queen of Evil has come to conquer you and ki- be mean to your farmers once again!”.
Her brother took a heroic stance. “I’ll beat you, Queen of Evil! With my big, magical sword, I will stop you from being mean to this poor farm girl!”
The child just went with it. “Please, m’lord, save me from the evil Queen!”
Mom walked up to the child and raised a sword against her, smiling.
“Magic blast!” her King yelled, pointing at the Queen of Evil. She fell over and rolled to her feet.
The King ran towards her, and swung once more. His aim was true, and he hit the Queen right in the arm.
“Ouch!” She yelled, falling to the ground and clutching her arm. Marigold ran over, sniffing and licking at her face. “Begone, foul creature! Do not taint me so with your hideous maw!”
The king hurried to the child, nearly tripping on his long cape.
“Thank you for rescuing me, m’lord!” She said.
He held his sword out in a heroic fashion, flannel cape rippling in his wake. “You’re welcome. I will protect all my peoples!”
She gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “M’lord, behind you!”
The Queen of evil came up behind him, playfully hitting him in the back. He fell to the ground dramatically, throwing away his sword. “Help me!”
She pointed her sword towards the Queen of Evil, who was already laughing again. The Queen slashed at her, but she beat it to the side, and almost hit the Queen in the leg. She blocked it, retaliating with a stab to the stomach. The child evaded, and they exchanged blows while the King looked up in awe. Eventually, he pointed a small finger at the Queen. “Loyal horse, attack the bad woman!” Marigold looked at him, then at the Queen. She padded over to the King and gave him a royal lick in the ear. “No, not me! The bad one!”
The door burst open, and Dad appeared, brandishing two long wooden spoons. “Get away from them, foul witch! Your quarrel is not with them, but with me!”
She turned to him. “And who are you supposed to be?”
He twirled his spoons.“Sir Quinton of the Cookery! I dispatch foes with great haste, and make soups of even greater taste! Fight me, if you dare!”
The Queen responded by twirling her sword in the air. “I will make you eat those words!”
He ran towards her, ladles held out behind him. “I hate alphabet soup!”
They clashed, sword to spoon. The Queen spun and whirled at him with all her might, but Sir Cookery beat away all of the strikes. He disarmed her with both spoons, and they wrestled to the ground.
“Yes, good knight! Finish her off!” The King said, running up to cheer him on.
The child grabbed her sword and ran over.
The Queen and the Cook were grappling on the ground. “I need your help, o King! Only the great magical blade of evil’s bane can defeat her!”
The king ran over and grabbed his sword.
By now the Queen was on top of the Cook, holding him down.
“My my,” he said with a smirk, “I didn’t expect the queen to be such a fetching beauty!”
“Oh stop it, Sir Quinton, you will- ahhhh!”
The King bonked her on the head, and she collapsed onto the knight.
He sniffed at her hair. “Smells good too.”
“Oh stop it!” A muffled voice sounded from on top of him.
“Well, before we were so rudely interrupted, I had just making finished dinner. Would the king like a meal?”
“Yaaay!” The king yelled, regally sprinting into the house.
Marigold followed the child as she followed their brother. The sun was getting low enough to shine through the windows of the living room, bathing it in an amber glow. On the table was a massive tray of lasagna, piping hot from the oven. Fresh garlic bread, no doubt also from their neighbours, piped along with it. It was one of the most delicious meals the child had ever had, so she was sad to see it end so soon.
Marigold even got some, seeming impossibly content as she laid down in her big bed by the couch. After having washed up after dinner - themselves included - they joined Marigold by the couch. It was her brother’s turn to choose tonight’s movie. He chose Groundhog Day, dubbed in french. He hadn’t begun learning English yet, but the child didn’t mind. Too few of the movies they watched were in their native language, anyway.
After the movie was over, Mom put her brother to bed. When she got back, the four of them settled onto the couch, Marigold in the child’s lap.
“So.” Father started. “Ready for school, soon?”
She frowned. “No, not really.”
He began stroking her hair. “And why is that?”
“No reason.”
“Come on, sweetie, it’s alright. You can tell us.”
She sighed. “I just… I wonder what they’ll think of me now.”
Her mother chimed in. “We understand. You made a big, brave choice, honey, it’s natural to think that.”
“But if they are truly good friends, they’ll understand.” Her father added.
“Exactly. It will be fine, know that. But whatever they think, honey, know that we will always love and accept you, no matter what.”
She smiled at that, feeling tears beginning to form. Marigold snuggled even closer, with her head on the child’s chest. The dog looked at her, with those big brown eyes. They were so understanding.
“Speaking of, have you gotten any closer to finding a name, son?”
He immediately gasped.
“Quinton…” Her mother said, in a low, disappointed voice.
The child gently lifted Marigold off of her, and went to collect her jacket. Dad apologised profusely, as she wound her way out of the house and into the lazy summer air.
It was warm, but the child didn’t feel it.
She knew he didn’t mean it. Still…
Son.
She shook her head as she grabbed a ladder from the barn, leaning it up against the awning of the house. She climbed up, conflicting feelings fighting within her. Eventually, she settled on a downward-curving section of roof next to the window of her parent’s bedroom, overlooking the vast fields behind their little house. She didn’t look at them, instead turning her attention upward.
Night had come, bringing along its retinue of stars. Unceasingly, they waxed and waned in that ever-present void. How they managed that, the child could never understand.
She knew that they were not permanent, knew that they would all go dark someday far in the future. Still, to her, they held the same naive impermanence only felt during childhood. One she wished she could return to.
She knew all of that, yet it still failed to diminish the magic of simply gazing upward. People always looked to what was right, what was left, or what was down. But rarely, she found, did they look up. Still, she occasionally wished she could not look at all, least of all at herself. That required looking down. Why do that when there was so much wonder and so little loathing in the sky?
She knew all of this, but still looked down. At herself. Sadly, her father still seemed to do the same. Even though she had told him not to, told him who she was now, he still did it. Even though she wore the correct clothing, took the correct pills, got the correct surgeries, he still did it.
He knew all of that. And still, she cried. Not out loud, no she stifled the few hics that attempted to escape her. She could dam all of those up, even damn them if she wanted, but still the tears flowed.
Feet trudged across the roof, eventually coming to rest behind her.
“May I join you?” He asked.
She nodded.
He settled down next to her, sitting hunched over his legs. She gave him a meek glance, and looked upward again.
For a while, they sat in silence. He studied the fields, she the sky.
“Hey.” He said after a while. “I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to use that word. Still, I know it’s no excuse.”
She remained silent, and just looked at him.
He nodded to himself. “Yeah, you don’t have to say anything. Just know that I am truly sorry. It’s just… For the past 15 years I never thought I’d have… you know.”
“A daughter?” She asked.
He smiled back, speaking slowly. “Yeah. So, I need to get used to having one, is all. It might take a bit of time, and I might slip up again. But know that that is a mistake that I make, a mistake born out of the love for what was born of me. I loved the person you were then. And I love who you are now. So whoever you decide to become, whatever you decide to be called, know that you will always have a place in my heart. Unconditionally.”
She heard a sniffle from the window.
He wiped a tear from his cheek. “Your mother and I are going to bed now, babygirl. Good night.”
He got up and walked towards the ladder. The child rose and enveloped him from behind. He turned around and put his hands around her.
She wiped her tears on his jacket, still smelling of apples. “I love you too, dad. Can you find a name for me?”