I wonder what would happen if I picked up the phone and dialed the sun’s number. Would it go to voicemail? Or would they pick up, already expecting my phone call?
I would ask them how their day was, but then realize, a little foolishly, that it probably never ends. I hope your life is going well, I’d say, mine is going okay. But I have a few questions.
If we could see each other through the phone, the sun might see the way my lips quiver, how they pull apart and tighten, how my gaze shifts around, flickering. The sun would sigh, something between tender and tired, then say, I have all of the time in the universe.
I would have already memorized exactly what I wanted to ask before placing the call. But even so, I would hesitate, the vowels and letters getting stuck in my chest. The threshold that is my mouth would connect the thoughts I’ve spent too many years of my life wondering to the reality of parts of my past, unknown to me. Is that something you can prepare for? The knowledge that serves to shed light on how I came into existence, and the reason the world placed me on this path.
I’d clear my throat and ask, a flurry of questions tumbling from my lips: Were you there? On that day? Did you see them? Do you know why they left me?
The sun would know what I am talking about, because they see everything. If not the sun, then I would call the moon and ask the same questions. If not the moon, then perhaps the earth would know.
I picture the sun closing their eyes and nodding, letting out a small, thoughtful hum. Yes, yes I was there.
The air would get caught in my throat as I wait, waiting for the sun to continue.
Ah, it was just as I was peeking over the mountain, the sun would say. I could barely see them between the narrow streets.
I wonder briefly if the street was crowded that early in the morning, if the harsh syllables of Mandarin would billow up between the rafters and the scent of cigarette smoke would string itself between opposing balconies. I’d like to think, at least, that the street would become crowded as the day progressed or else I might not have been found, tiny and bawling, stuffed into a worn down blanket. I’d like to think that they chose that street for that reason, so that I could be found.
I’d gulp and try not to cry. Do you know why they left me? Did you hear them say anything?
The sun might shake their head and say, I have no idea why, they didn’t say. But I do know one thing.
And if I could see the sun’s expression, I imagine it would be gentle, caring and consoling, maybe even smiling. It would embrace me with its warmth and cradle me in it’s chest, swathed in light instead of rags.
Your mother and father kissed your head and told you they loved you very, very much. They hoped you would find a happier future, a prosperous life. They hoped you wouldn’t worry too much and trust them. And they said, as they set you down softly, that you would always be their beautiful child.
I wish the sun would take my hand then, as they finish speaking, and hold it, while the silence falls between us. Perhaps the touch would replace the chill that creeps through my bones with something warmer and lighter. I would probably cry, because even though I’ve known those words for my whole life anyway, it still hurts to imagine them walking away.
vacancy 