It was you who showed me. 

Streaks of orange set afire, bleeding reddish-yellow tears. 

“The sky is like a phoenix,” you’d whispered reverently. “Blackening to ashes in the night only to be born anew. Humans know all too well the night, Naonka. Be blessed to witness the dawn.” I scorned this observation. I was impatient, ungracious, in all my six-year-old glory. We’ve been sitting in the icky grass for half an hour, in the bitter cold, I bemoaned. Just to watch the sun rise. It rises every day! Who cares? Nothing’s special about it. This is stupid. I did not pay any mind to the gorgeous masterpiece that time, patience, and the universe itself had gifted me with. 

“Why’d you make me get up so early just to see this?” I griped. “We could’ve gone any other time. I’ve got a hundred years’ worth of life to see the stupid dawn. I didn’t even want to see it today. This is so dumb.” 

You watched me silently, face emotionless. Then you nodded, slowly. At the time, I thought you were conceding to my point, and I felt so smug. Now, I’m… not so sure. 

“Alright, Naonka.” In a movement so smooth, especially considering our long period of unmoving languor, you rose off of the thin towel we had spread over the isolated grassy field. You stooped and began mechanically gathering the few items we had brought with us, depositing the collection into a travel bag. I was so startled by your change in demeanor that I only gaped. “Huh? We’re leaving already?” I stammered. 

Your back was almost entirely turned to me from where you knelt in the grass. Although the light of sunrise was steadily brightening the field, a shadow was cast over your face. I couldn’t tell, but I could’ve sworn I saw your mouth twist. In annoyance, likely. That’s how I would have felt, anyway. But not you. Now, older and wiser, as I look back on that moment, I do not see annoyance. I see grief. 

Even my older and wiser self isn’t completely certain what, exactly, you were mourning. But I do have a few guesses, and none of them features the physical loss of a person. “You said that you don’t want to keep watching, right?” you had inquired. “Besides, it’s just about over. Let’s go home. I’m sure you’re tired.” 

We trekked back across the wide field, through a stretch of trees, to our car. 

The drive home was unsettlingly quiet. Not silent, no. You commented on the particularly pretty views we passed along the road, as usual; and you hummed and drummed your fingers along the steering wheel as you drove, as usual. But I could sense it— the slightest of shifts. Your comments were cursory. Your music was tuneless. The air was heavy with a feeling too complex for words. 

Soon I nigh on forgot that morning’s existence. As I grew older and older, our already infrequent outings together became all but rare. I became accustomed to a “normal” life: staying at home unless I had a meet-up with friends, glued to my phone or computer whenever possible. We shared the same house, but I hardly spoke to you. When our eyes met I did not see you, for so much time hidden away from the light had made me comfortable to be left in darkness; I was my own mirror, always seeing inwards, incapable of seeing beyond. 

You may have always been my mother, but sometime along the road, I stopped being your daughter.

Suns rose and suns fell. Days and nights blurred until they were indistinguishable. In the blink of an eye, over a dozen years had passed. The friends I had once been content to spend all of my time with had slowly drifted into mere memory. Everyone rushed all about; we claimed we were going places, yet we did not care about the journey— only the destination. We raced here and there like it was our last day on Earth. 

Of course, it was not. 

I’d been correct, that day so long ago: I had had years upon years to see the dawn at my leisure. But I never did. 

Not a single thought of it crossed my mind. Dawn? Who’s that? Never did it occur to me to do something for the sake of doing it, to not need a reason to act. To enjoy the world in its purity, not in the monochrome grayness we had covered it with. What could ever be the point of doing something as silly and meaningless as watching the sunrise? Surely the smart thing to do was to pour my attention into actually productive things. 

And with this flawless logic, I advanced into my years, rapidly approaching middle-age. But then. 

Keiba Aka, age 63. Cause of death: Injured in a car crash; pronounced dead in Shellot Hospital. The crash happened hours past midnight. You were driving away from the town, toward an isolated grassy field with a clear view of the sky. The authorities thought that you’d grown impulsive in your old age, unreasonable. 

But I think I know what you were doing. 

Today is your funeral. It is held in the evening when it is already dark out. The sky is losing its last embers of color, a phoenix blackening to ashes. I know that you would’ve wanted it at dawn, overlooking the sun’s rebirth. 

Perhaps, the day we watched the dawn and sunrise, you were grieving for me. Grieving for the time I hadn’t yet lost. Grieving for the loss of the chance to teach me to appreciate my life, not aimlessly waste it away. 

The day after the funeral, I wake up as early in the morning as you must have the day you died, and drive to the isolated grassy field. 

I wait patiently. The sky lights up, streaks of orange set afire, bleeding reddish-yellow tears.