On Bended Knee

Holographic love.

Von flipped through page after page, skimming images in his mind as much as words on paper. The letters, one for each day of his captivity, were not so much letters as they were conversations, the sort of conversation that if overheard by a stranger, would not be given a second thought, but when imagined by the father from the son would not have been exchanged for all the world. Yet, the letters were not really conversations, they were prayers, or, as was called in the Tao, meditative prayers. There was a difference. Prayer was a plea, passive, something your grandmother did; meditative prayer a deed, active, and effective in ways beyond common comprehension. The Tao believed that meditative prayer could reach beyond space and time and shape events. His son had spent more than three years absorbed in that belief.

Von closed the tome as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if he had forgotten how. In an instant, his universe changed as if the pages of the Imprimatur Rubious had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and for the first time he saw not with dreams.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, not the least that he had survived captivity, not of his own will as he had thought, but with assistance from afar. Moments from the edge flooded the chasm of his memory as he recalled standing between this life and the next one, wanting to slip away into the peace of the night. At each of those moments he had found strength, had remembered the sensation of a cool breeze pushing him gently back to safety. He had thought little of those sensations at the time. Now, he realized a love, as deep as the regret welling in his bosom, and he cursed himself for the ignorance or pride that clouded his view at the time. And he marveled. Three years. Not a day missed. Letter after letter, all in longhand, painstakingly rendered not as word to paper but as Love to father.

Von opened his eyes and looked down without moving his head as if he could hide behind his quarter-opened lids. Glowing red, filling the room with sacred light, a small disc, no larger than the tip of his finger, silently and slowly grew brighter and dimmer as if each exchange was a breath, as if the disc were alive, as if it begged to be touched and opened. The disc was a holographic version of the letters, a version that would, when activated, appear in 3-D before him, the pages breathing in light as if alive from floor to ceiling in folio fashion, which could be turned with hand or eye.

With a wave of his hand, the holographic folio opened and the room filled with light. Opening the volume to a random page, Von walking into the light, his hands swimming in the sea of illumination as the words appeared to move as fish in shallow water. On the right-hand side, he spied what appeared to be a watermark, about the same size as his face. Gently leaning his countenance into the mark, Von felt as if he had touched an open circuit, his face felt wet and a scent of sea air filled his nostrils. His mind began to swirl, faster and faster, and as a child on a merry-go-round, the images of his mind began to blur. He quickly pulled his head back out. Touching the mark with his hand, he felt the shock again and this time he placed his whole head into the watermark, and as the tear of the father met the tear of the son, the two were united on a plane of existence Von could not explain.

When the strange joyful energy threatened to rip his heart from his chest, Von pulled his wet head out. Balling his fists to wipe his eyes, he studied the words on this page. Near the bottom he saw the four words that appeared on every page—I Love You Dad. Kneeling on bended knee, Von reached into the hologram, grasped those four words and pulled them into his hands. They pulsed as if the light beat in harmony with his heart. Bowing his head, Von took the string of words, and like a scarf, wrapped them around his chest, love touching love. The room brightened and with closed eye Von felt as if he were lying in a summer field looking into the sun, such was the light that penetrated his eyelids.

The words seemed to hug him back, and releasing his grip, Von placed his hands on the floor to steady himself, and with head still bowed and eyes still closed said, “I love you too son.”

Kyra sat stunned. Von looked exhausted.

“So there you have it,” he finally managed to say.

Soundtrack for this Chapter: Same Mistake (James Blunt, All the Lost Souls)

Reviews

[AutumnStorm]

Not pauses, not prior knowledge, can withstand the storm of awareness and sensation that reading this chapter summons. Standing directly within it, there is a sense of something approaching disbelief at just how impressive and moving this scene is. Yet do we not shed tears for the stranger's plight or euphoria, do we not feel their pain and share their happiness and thinking of them would we not do anything within our power, wish with all our might, that things were not so or that it might be remembered always..Your characters are more than strangers, they are to put a comprehensive label upon them loved ones. Two-toned material orange and pink, the thought just occurred to me, like the scent of vanilla does something extraordinary to my senses, two-toned are so many of your chapters, another label I guess would be bitter-sweet, aching and joyful all at once and the two together a notch more earnest than either would be capable of alone. This chapter produces far more 'yellow' than 'red', though it is patent that had Von known earlier words would have been spoken - though they could not have been more than had already - and the chance to stand before his son once more is still not his to have...how to word it...there is with these two a feeling of it being...unnecessary. Their love is manifested. I almost want to say how else could they willingly, though willingly is perhaps not the correct word, have parted but I won't. :-) What I will say is that more time, more words, further opportunities would not add only vary. Pure and complete, and certain. Unquestioning and unconditional. The visuals you have created here are awing and penetrating, the merging tears, through time and distance neither of which pertains to or alters the act itself, and the embraced, embracing words, just writing those words, I, embraced, embracing, and tears blur my vision at the profound beauty and simplicity of yours. The heart that writes words such as these...I don't know how to say it, but the existence, the knowledge that there it beats colours the world a shade brighter and makes me personally feel the rings of connection to those that reside in it more acutely, the trust that there are hearts around you, your C etc, that are loved so well (as these chapters show). I wish for one purpose only that I could write as well as you, and that would be to be able to tell you how well you write. You wrote above of stopping before hearts burst, that feeling is what you inspire, hearts filling so completely with the loveliness of what you have written that it feels as though it cannot contain. Tears on tears, words about chest, the (this) reader's too.