Date: August 2011
Time: Night
Location: Lake Placid, New York





Crickets chirped as summer ended in eastern North America, the sun long since having set behind the Adirondack Mountains of New York. Throughout July, Cyrus had come up to his aunt and uncle's lake house at Lake Placid on various weekends, although this occasion was by no means as joyous.

He had sat through the funeral in silence, folding and unfolding a paper boat in his lap. His blond hair had fallen into his face as he had stared down at the boat, blue eyes narrowed, focused in on the paper rather than those around him. His fingers had deftly folded and unfolded the boat, moving between creases without even a risk of a paper cut. Under closer inspection, one would have been able to notice that the boy had ripped apart his funeral bulletin into separate sheets. There had already been three paper boats on the ground of the church.

And then they'd put the coffin in the ground. Cyrus hadn't liked it. He'd stood in the sticky summer heat, and he'd watched sullenly, still holding onto his paper boats, as they put the coffin that held his mother into the ground.

He had said nothing. For once, the boy who never went quiet was not just quiet, but he had been silent: his feet had not tapped on the ground, his hands had not waved excitedly. He hadn't even fidgeted with his suit.

And then he'd gone up to Lake Placid with his aunt and uncle. It was supposed to be to relax, he remembered, to get away from the city, but the entire drive up, he had just sat with his face pressed against the window, staring at the sky. His mother had always loved the sky.

She'd named him after it, actually, he recalled in the car. Cyrus. Sun king. Alexander. Defender of men. The words, tinged in her soft voice, echoed in his ears, but he did not cry. His blue eyes remained dry and relatively unblinking as his nose pressed against the glass, his deep breaths fogging up the window and obscuring the world from his view.

And then they were at Lake Placid. The mountains that used to be comforting seemed to tower over Cyrus and his family, casting dark shadows upon them, blocking out the sun. But then it was night, so it didn't matter, except there were clouds now, and he couldn't see the stars, he couldn't see the moon.

One of his small hands clenched into a fist. One of his boats crumpled with his heart.

And later he was at the little pond in the backyard, crouched down, his slacks all rumpled and caked in dirt. His hair still fell into his face. The clouds still blocked the sky.

He had a new boat with him this time, one made from heavily-embossed stationery paper. Unfolded, the crest on the bottom would show the Darsel crest and the logo of his father's company. Monogrammed were SD: his father's initials. There were probably words on the paper, words Cyrus didn't yet have the ability to read. And he'd always liked his mother more, really; she'd truly cared for him, truly exalted him. She'd named him. She'd loved him.

Maybe he was young, maybe he couldn't comprehend what death really meant. He would certainly forget about it later. He would later learn that he had taken his mother's words to heart: 'Just keep smiling, keep creating, keep being your radiant, joyful self...'

She would always be with him if he could just do that. If he could be like her. And he would, he would be like her, because she was the best thing in his life.

He finished folding the boat and gently set it on the pond. Then, he dropped in a small glass figurine. In the dark, it was nearly invisible. In the daylight, it would appear to be a Cinnamon teal duck — the favourite duck of his mother.

'I love you.' Soft, high-pitched words rung out, catching in the stagnant air. 'I made you a boat.' The next words followed, still hanging in the air, almost as if caught by a piano pedal. He didn't have much to say. He didn't really understand the gravity of it. Just the sadness. He didn't like the sadness. 'I'm gonna keep making people happy,' he said quietly. 'I hope I'll make you happy.'

He didn't know where he thought his mother was. All he knew was that the box was in the ground.

And he would forget it later. Small parts would stick in his subconscious: the transience of water, the love of creation, the comforting hand that embroidered ducks into his clothing. He would lose the rest. The sadness, why would he dwell on that if he could be his joyful, radiant self? If he could bring happiness to others?

It was what his mother had wanted, after all. And his mother's son, he was.