splutter, “You can’t leave, you just... can’t!”
Finally, my father walks to where Ama and I are sitting. He squats down in front of me so we’re eye to eye.
He looks at me squarely, “We can. You’re ready. My father left me when I was your age too. I survived. You will too.”
I know he’s right, so I don’t try to argue. His words are solemn but assured. I sniff, trying to be as strong as he thinks I am.
He gets up again and fetches something from the corner of the room.
I look up to see he’s holding a ratty looking toy out to me. It’s my old baby doll they took from me when I was four.
“I was hard on you,” he says.
I grasp the doll by the arms and hug it close to my stomach, hoping to feel an echo of the comfort it gave me in childhood.
His voice grows quieter. “Perhaps too hard.”
My mother says, “We did what we thought was best. For you. For this family. For the country.”
“I know,” I say. “I understood.”
My mother and father both grasp my hands in theirs. “We always hoped you did.”
We stay like that, hands clutched together and silent for what seems like hours. I don’t know if they’ve fallen asleep, my mother next to me, her body leaning heavily upon mine. Or my father in front of me, seated on a high-backed chair with his eyes closed. But I haven’t slept. I’ve looked at them closely, trying to memorize the rise of my mother’s forehead, wrinkling now that I see it up close. And my father’s white hair, thinning on the top, a symptom of age I know our people wish they could all achieve.
When I finally see the sun starting to rise, I gently touch each of my parents. They stir and stare at me kindly, thinking they’ve only fallen asleep for a few minutes. I let them keep this illusion and stare back at them. When the knock comes at our door, it still seems too soon. But my father gets up to answer the door.
It’s Tomlin. “You have just five more minutes. The people are lined up,” he says. His eyes are downcast, sorry for interrupting our last moments.
“Thank you. We will be out shortly,” says my father, his voice thick with emotion. The “thank you” seems to be for more than just this reminder of time.
The door closes again, and my mother is still attached to my side, hugging me hard. “You will make such a good leader,” she says, wiping tears from her lashes.
“We are proud of you,” my father says. “Lead with a kind heart. But lead. Don’t forget that, my child.”
I nod, not able to get any words out of my throat. It’s closing up.
I watch as my father grabs up a small bag. In it I know are the essentials: a water pouch, food to sustain them for a few days, and a blanket. One thing left out are the purple pills. They don’t need them anymore. They will no longer be part of the Elected family.
My mother wraps a traveling cloak around her shoulders. It’s lined with wool. They’ll need the warmth, heading out into the unknown.
We walk out of the room together, holding hands in a small line, me in the middle. The maids and other help line the corridors. This is custom. People will line my parents’ walk to the front of the house and will form a tight line all along my parents’ path into the hills. For as many people as we have in our country, that is how long the line will extend on either side of my parents’ path. Arms will be linked together, in solidarity with my parents but also as a sort of fence, knotted together to prevent my parents from veering back into our country. The linked arms signify my parents must leave. As much as this custom is for my parents, it’s a pact of solidarity for me too. It signifies the people’s recognition that my parents’ time is over. That I am the next Elected.
We mount horses and ride forward together, my parents in front of me, side by side, with me behind. My parents stop in front of Tomlin and bow their heads. He returns the gesture, locking eyes with my father.
Without my
Finally, my father walks to where Ama and I are sitting. He squats down in front of me so we’re eye to eye.
He looks at me squarely, “We can. You’re ready. My father left me when I was your age too. I survived. You will too.”
I know he’s right, so I don’t try to argue. His words are solemn but assured. I sniff, trying to be as strong as he thinks I am.
He gets up again and fetches something from the corner of the room.
I look up to see he’s holding a ratty looking toy out to me. It’s my old baby doll they took from me when I was four.
“I was hard on you,” he says.
I grasp the doll by the arms and hug it close to my stomach, hoping to feel an echo of the comfort it gave me in childhood.
His voice grows quieter. “Perhaps too hard.”
My mother says, “We did what we thought was best. For you. For this family. For the country.”
“I know,” I say. “I understood.”
My mother and father both grasp my hands in theirs. “We always hoped you did.”
We stay like that, hands clutched together and silent for what seems like hours. I don’t know if they’ve fallen asleep, my mother next to me, her body leaning heavily upon mine. Or my father in front of me, seated on a high-backed chair with his eyes closed. But I haven’t slept. I’ve looked at them closely, trying to memorize the rise of my mother’s forehead, wrinkling now that I see it up close. And my father’s white hair, thinning on the top, a symptom of age I know our people wish they could all achieve.
When I finally see the sun starting to rise, I gently touch each of my parents. They stir and stare at me kindly, thinking they’ve only fallen asleep for a few minutes. I let them keep this illusion and stare back at them. When the knock comes at our door, it still seems too soon. But my father gets up to answer the door.
It’s Tomlin. “You have just five more minutes. The people are lined up,” he says. His eyes are downcast, sorry for interrupting our last moments.
“Thank you. We will be out shortly,” says my father, his voice thick with emotion. The “thank you” seems to be for more than just this reminder of time.
The door closes again, and my mother is still attached to my side, hugging me hard. “You will make such a good leader,” she says, wiping tears from her lashes.
“We are proud of you,” my father says. “Lead with a kind heart. But lead. Don’t forget that, my child.”
I nod, not able to get any words out of my throat. It’s closing up.
I watch as my father grabs up a small bag. In it I know are the essentials: a water pouch, food to sustain them for a few days, and a blanket. One thing left out are the purple pills. They don’t need them anymore. They will no longer be part of the Elected family.
My mother wraps a traveling cloak around her shoulders. It’s lined with wool. They’ll need the warmth, heading out into the unknown.
We walk out of the room together, holding hands in a small line, me in the middle. The maids and other help line the corridors. This is custom. People will line my parents’ walk to the front of the house and will form a tight line all along my parents’ path into the hills. For as many people as we have in our country, that is how long the line will extend on either side of my parents’ path. Arms will be linked together, in solidarity with my parents but also as a sort of fence, knotted together to prevent my parents from veering back into our country. The linked arms signify my parents must leave. As much as this custom is for my parents, it’s a pact of solidarity for me too. It signifies the people’s recognition that my parents’ time is over. That I am the next Elected.
We mount horses and ride forward together, my parents in front of me, side by side, with me behind. My parents stop in front of Tomlin and bow their heads. He returns the gesture, locking eyes with my father.
Without my
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