life now, knowing the end is drawing near, and seeing all of my regrets. You used to be just about my only one, the only thing I would have done differently (aside from hitting my father so many years ago). I would have talked to you, maybe you would have fallen in love with me like I did with you.
I can’t change the past but maybe I can change the future. I can see the parts of the world that I’d always wanted to see, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find it in myself to tell you how I have always felt. Maybe I’ll just walk up to you and hand you this stack of letters. I always keep them with me when we’re together but apart-the eclipse the common factor between us.
I’m running out of time to make the changes in my life I should’ve made years ago. Five fourteen this time, I’ll need the strength and the resolve. I can’t go back on this, I can’t.
And don’t worry, please. I would hate for you to worry about me. I won’t be at the next one, Russia is just too cold for me these days.
Until next time, with love.
AUGUST 24, 2063
Lena,
I’ve taken care of one more thing I wanted to do: climb Mt. Fuji. Well, I didn’t so much as climb it as have help reaching the summit but it was exhilarating none the less. I wish I’d done it when we were in Japan years ago, before I became too old to walk on flat ground let alone climb a mountain. But I stood there, my son beside me, at the top of a dormant volcano, looking out over the country. He put his hand on my shoulder, patted it gently, and I knew all was well.
But there we stood, on top of a volcano that could erupt at any moment. Like me, unpredictable and destructive. What haven’t I ruined, aside from my son?
I saw them again, waiting for me at the summit, their little clockwork legs and wings ticking in congratulations. They stand by me now, strong and supportive, offering me what my father never could. But I make sure to give my son the support and strength he deserves.
Do you feel the end closing in? I know I have more time left, but how much? I’m eighty-four years old now and everything wears on me more than ever before. It’s hard to get places, but I fight against it. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Despite it all, here I stand, halfway around the world waiting for the darkness to come.
Of all the things I need to do before I die the most difficult will be to forgive. To forgive my father for the way he treated me, to forgive her for never telling me I had a son, and to forgive myself for the things I have and haven’t done.
We preach forgiveness all the time as a species—that it is better to forgive than to dwell on something. And we often do it, forgiving each other for heinous acts. You still see it in the news, the families of murder victims forgiving the killers for their acts.
But do they forgive themselves? Not the killers, they don’t deserve their own forgiveness. Do those families, weeping over their murdered loved one, ever forgive themselves? Or do they focus on the things they could have done differently that may have changed things, may have prevented an unnecessary death?
And that’s where I stand confused. Do I deserve forgiveness? For hitting my father, for the hurt I caused my mother, for not giving the mother of my child what she needed, for never telling you the truth. I don’t believe that I do, and I’m not sure I’ll find that forgiveness in myself before I die.
They’re acting up now, fluttering at my head. I know they disagree, but what can I do? They can’t help me to find the forgiveness, only I can do that.
Well, me and the darkness.
Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. It’ll give me the time I need to figure some things out.
AUGUST 12, 2064
Dear Lena,
Another year, another eclipse. My son couldn’t come this time, his work is keeping him away. He took the business route like I did, a self-made man working in the technology field. Did you ever imagine how
I can’t change the past but maybe I can change the future. I can see the parts of the world that I’d always wanted to see, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find it in myself to tell you how I have always felt. Maybe I’ll just walk up to you and hand you this stack of letters. I always keep them with me when we’re together but apart-the eclipse the common factor between us.
I’m running out of time to make the changes in my life I should’ve made years ago. Five fourteen this time, I’ll need the strength and the resolve. I can’t go back on this, I can’t.
And don’t worry, please. I would hate for you to worry about me. I won’t be at the next one, Russia is just too cold for me these days.
Until next time, with love.
AUGUST 24, 2063
Lena,
I’ve taken care of one more thing I wanted to do: climb Mt. Fuji. Well, I didn’t so much as climb it as have help reaching the summit but it was exhilarating none the less. I wish I’d done it when we were in Japan years ago, before I became too old to walk on flat ground let alone climb a mountain. But I stood there, my son beside me, at the top of a dormant volcano, looking out over the country. He put his hand on my shoulder, patted it gently, and I knew all was well.
But there we stood, on top of a volcano that could erupt at any moment. Like me, unpredictable and destructive. What haven’t I ruined, aside from my son?
I saw them again, waiting for me at the summit, their little clockwork legs and wings ticking in congratulations. They stand by me now, strong and supportive, offering me what my father never could. But I make sure to give my son the support and strength he deserves.
Do you feel the end closing in? I know I have more time left, but how much? I’m eighty-four years old now and everything wears on me more than ever before. It’s hard to get places, but I fight against it. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Despite it all, here I stand, halfway around the world waiting for the darkness to come.
Of all the things I need to do before I die the most difficult will be to forgive. To forgive my father for the way he treated me, to forgive her for never telling me I had a son, and to forgive myself for the things I have and haven’t done.
We preach forgiveness all the time as a species—that it is better to forgive than to dwell on something. And we often do it, forgiving each other for heinous acts. You still see it in the news, the families of murder victims forgiving the killers for their acts.
But do they forgive themselves? Not the killers, they don’t deserve their own forgiveness. Do those families, weeping over their murdered loved one, ever forgive themselves? Or do they focus on the things they could have done differently that may have changed things, may have prevented an unnecessary death?
And that’s where I stand confused. Do I deserve forgiveness? For hitting my father, for the hurt I caused my mother, for not giving the mother of my child what she needed, for never telling you the truth. I don’t believe that I do, and I’m not sure I’ll find that forgiveness in myself before I die.
They’re acting up now, fluttering at my head. I know they disagree, but what can I do? They can’t help me to find the forgiveness, only I can do that.
Well, me and the darkness.
Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. It’ll give me the time I need to figure some things out.
AUGUST 12, 2064
Dear Lena,
Another year, another eclipse. My son couldn’t come this time, his work is keeping him away. He took the business route like I did, a self-made man working in the technology field. Did you ever imagine how
Similar Books
