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Aiming for the Stars I wrinkled my nose and clenched my fists as I bent my legs to prepare for a jump. I leapt upwards and feebly swiped at the air above me, my goal being to reach my father's hand, held tauntingly at a foot above my head. He smiled at me and ruffled my hair fondly. "Don't worry, squirt," he said with a laugh, "keep on eatin' your vegetables, and someday you'll be tall enough to reach me." I frowned at him. I did not believe in the magic of vegetables. But I did believe in the magic of training. I trained as any other motivated young warrior does, rising early at the rooster's first crow and practicing, honing, perfecting my skills until I dropped with the sun at the end of the day. My father would come and watch me train with the tutors every once in a while, his arms crossed, a smile on his bearded face. I mostly disliked this. As anyone who has practiced a skill for the sake of impressing another should know, it is extremely disagreeable to have that other person catch you practicing before you have reached the standard you are hoping to reach. I would try not to look at him and pretend I hadn't noticed his presence, and then blame the sweat dripping into my eyes for my ignorance when he greeted me at home. I longed to one day be as strong as my father. I wanted nothing more than to reach his standards, to be as tall and strong and wise as my father was. My father himself saw the potential in me to accomplish this; I, on the otherhand, did not. But I strove nevertheless to get as close as I could to measuring up to my father, and trained tirelessly. And then my father died. It happened when I was much more grown, but I was shocked nevertheless, and stumbled through words, thoughts, and memories for a good while, bewildered as to how he could have died. My father, who had been like the tree that keeps a slippery slope from tumbling into the river below, had fallen. I gave up training. There was no point in training anymore, now that my goal no longer existed. The point on the horizon I had been working towards had suddenly been blotted out by the cold, apathetic shadow of death, and with that point I lost all motivation and enthusiasm for progress. At night, I would stare hopelessly into the dark, unforgiving sky, and I would wonder whether or not father was up there still watching me. The stars never gave me an answer, and the cold night wind only served to remind me of my new emptiness. But last night, I dreamt. I dreamt that I saw father stepping down from the satiny night sky embedded with glittering stars, the moon casting on him an ethereal glow as he made his way, with slow, measured steps, down to Earth. I knew I was dreaming, because had I been awake, I would've instantly fallen to my knees and cried. As things were, I simply watched as he came towards me, walking the walk I had seen him walk all his life, that familiar smile on his lips. I looked down at my own hands, soft from lack of work and training, then at his, which he had offered to me. They were rough and dark, like big bear paws. He took my hands in his and then looked at the top of my head. "Looks like you've grown taller," I think I heard him say, "but you'll have to do much better to reach me now!" His laugh, a chuckle that came straight from the heart, was still ringing in my ears when I awoke. Now, I wake with the sun as I once did, and train until my lungs are on the verge of bursting and I have sweated every last painful drop. My dream had reminded me of an important thing: that death was not the end, and that I still had a long way ahead of me. As I did when I was small, I will continue to practice, hone, and perfect until I have reached my father- except that now he is not towering above me, his hand over my head. No...now I am aiming for the stars. Aeluin | |