“Golden”

Prologue

           He told me that my Mama had died in her sleep.

           When Papa shook me awake on that aschgrau morning I had seen just six autumn seasons come and go.  But I shall remember for all eternity what I saw in my Papa’s eyes that day.  For his downcast eyes were filled with that same flat nothingness I had been seeing each day in the now fast-wintering sky; a look that crowded out an otherwise perpetual sadness they had always seemed to exhibit.

           “’Tis your Mama, Georg,” Papa began.  His every word appeared carefully considered, as though he was struggling to explain what could never be truly understood.  His voice sounded reedy and thin; quite far-away and removed from this somber place.  He was absent his usual comforting, yet not quite believable reassuring way.

           Papa looked away from me.  He spoke as though he simply could not bear witness to the terribleness that must have been reflected in my own disbelieving eyes.  I found myself as one struck dumb.  I was incapable of murmuring even a single word in response.   I felt my hand reaching up, clutching at my chest.  And then I was touching – pressing – searching in vain for the broken heart that I now was certain had ceased to beat.

           “She did not awaken this morning, mien son” Papa finally managed.  Each word clearly required of him a great deal of effort and even more forethought.  His tired face shone like the crimson in the hardy flowers that yet struggled to survive in the valley fields.

           I was incapable of mere words and so I simply sat there and stared at Papa and waited for him.  Yet somehow I willed my eyes to ask of him those too hard, awful questions.  Papa abruptly sat; collapsing into a shapeless heap upon my tiny bed.  For what seemed a very long time, I felt his bear-paw of a hand resting against my trembling shoulder.