Following of the Sun

It was in one of the early autumnal months that I was working in my Canterlot workshop on a window piece for the great hall - a 68ft tall stained glass mosaic of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna - when a letter came to me from my elder brother. Now, he had on occasion written to me regarding family matters, so it was not in itself odd that he would write to me, but nonetheless his message struck me as quite a different affair than his usual. Although within this letter he had spoken of "my earliest convenience" and even had said that I should come only when my current work is completed, paradoxically there existed an urgency in his letter that I found unshakeable. My parents had taken sick, and although he hadn't elaborated on it beyond this minimal notice, I felt within me growing a certainty that they were dying. As such, I found it necessary even to complete only the bare essentials of the mosaic; entrusting my talented new apprentice Miss Ladybird with its installation.

Before I knew it, I had found myself in a coach, riding again through the unpredictable streets of Fillydelphia. We passed the many muddy baseball courts, the kids playing there undeterred by the grassy patches or the surrounding fences and houses. Nearby dogs barked and offended cats, secret mice scurried through unpainted fences and past the gardens of the conniving, screaming, or indifferent. I did not imagine that the squalor that awaited me did so with open legs: I could not help but feel instead that I was yanked out of my life - pulled from my world with its own separate hardships - and thrown into something else entirely, something as indeterminable as the refrain of the season's torrential rain. All in all, when finally the coach had stopped near the old house, it did not feel like I had returned home.

The door opened to the fading voice of my mother. 'I told you to bring the keys,' she called from somewhere near the kitchen, 'I will make the coffee.' I found myself taking stock of the changes that had been brought to the place, and although it was true that there was a castaway bed and a new cabinet in the living room, tall and steady under the arrangement of saucers and cups, I felt annoyed that despite all of the money I had sent them, little had been done to repair most of the place. The walls in particular, though seemingly plugged up, were more discoloured than ever, and looked very much like they were due to give way at any moment. Finally I had found my mother in the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. She stopped then and, turning, she remarked, 'You're not Gladstone.' Looking at me more closely she then exclaimed, 'You're back! I'm so glad.'

Briefly we exchanged fond hellos, until she said, almost hurriedly: 'Father is in bed. He's very tired right now, but you could go and see him right now. I'll put some coffee on.'

'I don't drink coffee,' I reminded her, heading into my parents' bedroom.

The room smelled of cough syrup and a neighbourhood barbecue and was as much shade as it was light. Sure enough, Father was in bed. It had been some years since I had seen my parents, and yet, it still did not feel like reunion. Rather, it resembled more closely this dusty chest I had found holding a selection of curious artefacts. They did not seem changed at all, merely older.

Although I considered for a moment the possibility that Father would be asleep, still I approached the bed from the window's side, leaning in closely. As if tugged at by some hidden puppeteer, his eyes started opening, slow and steady. 'I'm sorry if I can't get up,' he said, laughing gruffly. 'Your mother seems to think it's a cute trick of mine, to make me feel very special about myself. Can't entirely say I blame her.'

There were many things I wanted to ask him then, though none of them were profound questions. Simply, I wanted to know why they were the only ones who were at home: why it was that, of all of their children, I was the only one summoned to the old house. I wanted to know also, of course, the nature of this sickness my brother had mentioned in his letter. Certainly Mother seemed very much alive, considering her advanced years. What then, had afflicted my father? Although I could not bring myself to give voice to these questions, I resolved at least to inquire, if but subtly, about his current state. 'Are you in bed a lot these days?' I asked.

'Ah, but there are many things I can do in bed,' he said, smiling, 'I can still order your mother around even from here.' He winked at me and called out, barely loudly enough, 'Where are my magazines dear? What about some coffee?' Then he returned to the hushed grit he had previously spoken with, as much worn as it was conspiratory. He grinned rather smugly, saying, 'See? It's really perfect.'

Not without some annoyance, I looked outside, craning my neck to see the park at the corner of the street. It had started to rain again, so I soon closed the window to its customary position, where some air could still come in, but we would not be treated to a harsh rainstorm. I was certain that he had deliberately taken my polite inquiry and turned it into a joke, forcing me to ask once more. So it was that when Mother entered the room with a tray of cups and, indeed, a modest heap of magazines, that I asked her, 'Is he in bed all day?'

Setting down the cups on the nightstand, she smiled and said to me, 'He shouldn't be getting lazy in his condition. He should be getting some exercise regularly.'

'His condition...' I started, and Father propped himself up, greedily swiping the magazines from the tray, indignantly calling out, 'I'm right here!'

The hour following my arrival largely comprised such frustrations, and although I couldn't say that these things were uncommon among parents, still I found myself annoyed with their evasiveness. More than that though, I regret to say, already I felt bored. Father was content to work on crosswords, barely making any effort to include me even there. So, saying I would check on Mother, I had returned to the living room where I found her staring listlessly out of the window, coffee in hoof. I was curious, mostly because there was nothing else for me left to be curious about, what it was that she was thinking; what it was that she was picturing out on those barren streets.

At length, my elder brother came home, and as he made a distinct effort to dry his coat I found myself glaring at him impatiently. He seemed to have a particular routine process of getting coffee and re-dressing, and combined with the reaction Mother gave him - or rather, the lack of one - it told me he had been staying here for quite a while. Only when he finished his coffee did he say to me, at last, 'So, we should talk for a moment. Let's go to the old room.'

He lead me then to our old bedroom, which had been entirely redecorated. I could not but be surprised by these changes, in spite of all of them making perfect sense: already I had been told the room had long turned into a guest room, allowing for whichever of us visiting to stay as long as we wished. There was also something in my brother's manner that had started to gnaw on my nerves, but somehow, in the old room the resonance was stronger. It was hard to place exactly, but his entire conduct told me that for all intents and purposes he was a responsible caretaker, and I was little more than a visitor.

Slowly then, as he stood against the far wall (I was bidden to sit on the side of the bed), he told me of our parents' respective illnesses. Mother, so he explained, was largely all right most of the day, but her mental faculties were afflicted by some onset of one of the more pressing degenerative neural motor disorders, and often times would, if but for a moment, forget entirely where she was or what she was doing. It would not be long before she too would require professional attention. He spoke at length about this, detailing functions of the midbrain and how these correlated with the attention she required from professional carers, and when he did so he had adapted an air of authority quite outside of what I had come to know as his personality.

Still many questions plagued me, but before any of these were addressed, he seemed to stop suddenly, realising perhaps that he had told as much about Mother's condition as he could. I looked around me, finding that quite unexpectedly the rain had stopped and a few rays of sunshine had broken through the window. 'And Father?' I asked at last.

He sighed, deliberating with himself. Perhaps he wasn't sure where to begin, but also, I found in him a trace of guilt, suggesting to me that he had not been entirely honest in writing to me, and that my parents' condition was not as severe as I was lead to believe. I did not wait for him to finish his deliberations, and asked, this time more directly, 'Where's everyone else?'

He was more eager to tell the manifold stories of logistics and current living conditions of our three siblings. With some pride he detailed our youngest brother Apothecare's scholarship and subsequent dedication currently necessitated by an alarming increase in demand for up-and-coming researchers. In fact, he reported so thoroughly on his field of entomology that he did not hesitate to recount to me the anecdotes Apothecare himself has shared with us years ago, when I was still in crafts school and Gladstone spent most of his nights in bars or at friends. 'You could really see his burgeoning interests even then,' he concluded.

Although there was a wild pace to his report, one that thrashed and then quietened with nuanced reflection, at all times he maintained that measure often found in a professor's lecture - one that did not permit any interruption. In such a way he informed me of our remaining siblings' status: Padlock was in labour - the variety where babies were involved - and, finally, although he had expressed a strong desire to visit, it could not be expected of Greenway to travel all the way from Prance until it was absolutely certain that the moment called for it.

Particularly when he spoke of Greenway's situation I sensed in his explanation a deliberate care given to how my parents' condition was referred to. Indeed, although he had no doubt attempted to retain his balanced expression, recurring trembles wrinkled his face. These wrinkles were preserved even when he was finished, though it was hard to tell if he was even ware of them. I had found myself fidgeting and could not meet his gaze for very long, turning my eyes instead to the drops that swam across the window. Not without exasperation and largely to myself, I concluded, 'And yet, here I am.'

'So you are,' he agreed. He seemed almost amused at this comment, as if it were somehow a curious affair. It was true, of course, that I had not visited my parents in a long time, but then, there had been little reason to. It held little value to me to simply be present, with little for us to say or do, all simply to satisfy some unspoken obligation. Our words died down and gradually the atmosphere in the room grew more and more uneasy, until I was quite certain that one of us would snap, somehow - snap in some adult sort of way - when suddenly we found ourselves listening to odd murmurs from somewhere in the wall opposite of me. Apparently, because of the falling rain, they had not up till recently been audible. Faintly, I could hear their voices, and I could not help but wonder if behind that wall still lived the same neighbours that had done so so many years ago. My brother rose to his hooves then, his shadow casting its dark tone on the wall, and he left the room without another word.

It took us some days until I would finally learn why I had truly been summoned back to the old house. Most of those days I had spent in the living room, where was set up a bed for our elder sister Padlock's visits, who for some reason had refused the old bedroom. There I corresponded with my apprentice, remarking on multiple occasions how my brother had, all by himself, made the place seem more crowded than it had ever been. It was difficult for me to spend much time with my mother, certain that at any moment Gladstone would step forward to remind her of something, or instead ask her one of his many pet questions.

She would be reading a cooking magazine, nestled into the ragged corner of the couch that was hers, until her eyes had traveled deep into its pages, but before long my brother's voice would appear, inquisitive and sudden. 'What was it you would like to see for supper?' or 'Have you found your old crosswords yet?' When we conversed, at no time did we reach the point where I was certain we had broken past the most elementary of beginnings. Simply, my brother's presence did not allow it.

Much due to him, I had spent ample time reacquainting myself with the neighbourhood. So, I learned which of the old shops had been torn down, reappropriated, or otherwise, and found that the old school still existed, if quite with a different look than I had remembered. Its playground had sequestered around the corner, and the face of the building had a big screen that bore its shiny, unfamiliar credentials. Eventually I even read the names at the neighbour's door, just to make sure they were in fact new. Judging by these findings, it would be fair to conclude that much had changed in the neighbourhood, but I could not help but tell myself that every little tweak in its latticework was more similar than it was truly different, or, indeed, new.

In my correspondences I must have appeared impatient, much of which too came courtesy of my brother's own infectious impatience. To my apprentice, I had described one particular manner of his thusly: When confronted in his daily planning with another suggestion, there is often an offence to it that only he can perceive. Such unique perspective is a terrible burden, and it manifests itself where he can somehow both breathe an exhaustive sigh and simultaneously mutter, "If it pleases you." The natural path may have been to question then what was expected of me instead, but most of my thoughts branched altogether differently, and much deeper than I could truly understand.

I did not write of this in such detail, but his if it pleases you I frequently posed upon myself as well, albeit in many different ways than was his wont. It appeared largely as a puzzle; a tangle of cords and ropes dangled before me tauntingly by some unseen hoof. Each time I repeated the phrase to myself, I sought to understand it - to try to divine some of its profoundness that surely must be there, but I succeeded only in growing more and more angered by its presence. I did not allow myself to reminisce of my time in the castle, but still I found myself in the royal gardens, right before she appeared. Under the glow of the stars its pond shone bright as diamonds, and I stood among its flowers and all of its greens as though not a day had passed. Beautiful as it was, so too was I saddened by it, though not from it being past. I could not truly fathom this sadness that I felt to my very core, and it was precisely this puzzle that increased its vehemence. In my frustration, I longed to return to my work.

It was not my habit to correspond on such faraway topics, but each day when I wrote to Ms Ladybird, the letters could not but become more petty and insular. If it pleases me, I then thought to myself as I catalogued the disputes before me, why don't I travel the world in search of old friends or friends I had never made? What good would it do, to see the lives they have forged, and how they have festooned their years past? Regardless of what they have built, I would not be able to stay. It certainly would not address my present situation, which could only be confronted in the old house. Writing to my apprentice on these matters, however, nursed my sense of resolve, and though it was sadness or anger that often occupied my faculties, I was determined to have ample light shine on my stay's unanswered questions.

Finally, when Gladstone had returned one day, and again stowed his coat and set about to make himself a cup of coffee, I found myself telling him, 'There are a few projects in my workshop that need tending to. I was thinking perhaps next week-'

'You know, Lily,' he started, setting down his cup on the sink. He had made his mind up in an instant, absolute clarity hanging around him like a charm he was well-acquainted with. 'It's all well and good to have your own life,' he continued, 'but to think so little of the lives of others is really quite unbecoming.' I considered then that he must have referred to me being ungrateful, somehow, to my parents. True or not, I could not but wonder if they had heard from their bedroom my brother rising up in their defence when he sighed, concluding, 'You seem to think you're the only one who's got other things to be doing.'

He decided to continue making his coffee, but his movements were forced and slow. As though it was a logical extension of these proceedings, he picked up again his speech, his voice raised to that constant, instructional tone: 'Yet in all your important work you have forgotten that my wife and son are waiting for me at home. But it is not me, who's sitting where you are right now and asking, "But when, sister, am I allowed to go home?"'

I stuttered a brief laugh, and, recovering, shot him a short hmm as he perused the cabinets in search of something or other that likely did not even exist. 'Put down your coffee granules and tell me why I am here,' I demanded.

Part of me expected him to break down crying, even though that had never been his way. It just seemed right then to be exactly the absurdest thing to do. Rather, without turning to face me he decided, 'Okay. Father asked me to write to you. Before... before it would be too late.'

Even then I wondered how close to death he was, and if this was an affair that would take many years or mere months. Was I then required to stay indefinitely? In his words there was nothing of true urgency. Speaking of "it" being "too late" was linked, somehow, to his outburst; his own family, and the manner in which he had come to regard me. What at first I had seen as authority now seemed more to be accusatory, and I could not help but feel like I had become to him the sole source of all that was wrong in the world. He said then, with some finality, 'You should speak to Father as soon as you can.'

When the distractions of lunch had run their course, and Gladstone went to get groceries before the store closed, I finally went to see Father. Perhaps he had seen in my eyes some purpose to my calling on him, or he had overheard our conversation in the kitchen earlier that day, for he said to Mother, 'Dear, will you leave me to talk with our beautiful daughter?' As she made her retreat, I briefly wondered if they ever talked to each other these days without anyone else present.

At first it seemed that his "talk" was of little consequence. Not only were his effects and finances of little value, but he treated them exactly as such. He was never the sort to become sentimental when it came to amassing baubles and photographs, so these properties he described exclusively with a practical air. There was a contingency, particularly, that he was telling me about that made me wonder why it was me, and not my brother, who was told this. He said, 'When your mother is left alone here, I do not wish for her to put up with this house. You'll have to persuade her to be taken to a hospice or some such place.

'A peaceful and charming one, naturally - will you make sure you find the right one for her when the time comes?' It was odd to hear Father talk about his own death, and I couldn't help but think him rather silly. Childish, almost, as if he was indulging himself in one last chance to command attention, much like Mother had suggested he was in spending so much time in bed. In many ways, his will had slowly transformed into one of his stories, where it was he, of course, who was to be the long-suffering but noble hero.

'Did you get your exercise today?' I asked suddenly, determined perhaps to change the tone of the conversation. But where I had expected a petulant rebuke, and even had prepared a follow-up in the case that he would simply continue undeterred, he instead looked at me gravely, at once pulling on my hoof, so that I found myself close to his wrinkled face. I was startled to find that, like Mother, he had come to smell like soap and urine. And although it was true that he had become quite advanced in years, now his eyes were open, betraying little of the tiredness he had shown previously. Surely none of his features declared some demise close around the corner. 'There's one more thing I wish to ask of you, while I can,' he said.

As the sun cast itself on my back, I patiently waited for him to gather the strength to tell me what he had called me for. 'In one's twilight years, one often finds himself wondering how much really it is that they have done. And I wonder if I have done enough; done my part in my duty.' He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, so I thought that perhaps he would say no more and would instead fall asleep, but then he said, 'But what can I do? Even if I could, a barrel is hardly honourable.

'In a way, it would be more fitting if it were you.' He swallowed very precisely then, and I realised he was struggling to say what he needed to say. He pointed vaguely at the nightstand then, whispering, 'There, in the second drawer.'

Removing myself the least bit from the bed, I began wrenching open the drawer specified. The wood was old and I was afraid that in pulling it unstuck, I'd break the entire thing. As I tried to find the right balance between gentle and firm, he murmured, 'I have tried writing to the city council, but perhaps an old ghost like myself is hardly compelling in his entreatment. It would be possible, I hope, to take care of the bureaucrats and paperwork that...'

His voice trailed off, waiting for me to unravel the scroll I found in the drawer. A particular fear came over me that I couldn't quite explain. I had grown long ago to dislike his use of the word honour, but now when he spoke of things being honourable, he seemed no longer even to refer to anything he could place. It had somehow faded into the distance then, faintly revered but no longer explicable. When I unrolled the scroll part of me had wanted to laugh. I regret to say that his design was quite ridiculous to me, and I couldn't help but think he had no idea what he had been doing. His condition had seemed more serious suddenly than I had thought, and it was precisely his seriousness at working himself towards this final request that had made him seem bounds away from the life I had come to value in my workshop and elsewhere in Equestria in service to the Royal Sisters. As mutely as I could, I asked, 'This is a single wall?'

'Yes, a wall. But, see, you can look through the window from both sides then. I was thinking about the park. It would be fitting, as we both have always liked the little park. And everyone could walk past it, see? And take a look at it. It would be perfect in a way, I think, for everyone.'

If he had sensed my lack of enthusiasm, he was intent to be as animated as he could be in spite of it. No, I realised, he was set on his idea, and however ill-devised and outside of his field it was formed, it was a hundred-percent the ideal. This idea then, that he had begun to present to me, had strayed entirely from the field of a personal request and had emerged from its cocoon to be a public display. I had become very much uncomfortable. I returned the scroll to the drawer, hoping vainly that in doing so he would soon forget the ordeal he had set in motion. But I knew, of course, that it would only be worse.

The thought came to me quite out of nowhere, as the simplest of answers tended to do when one needed them most. My discomfort had revealed itself to be some omen of instinct, and I asked, 'What would you like on the window?'

He laughed, in that genial sort of way where he could mock you but still be sure you knew that he loved you. 'What I would like? No. I should think it's obvious who should be on the window. Don't tell me you didn't know.'

I felt my stomach turn, and I had not the heart to show how nauseous I had become. He had no idea what he had asked me to do; no idea of what he had resolved to put me through. The entirety of my work flashed before me, and all of the worth I had amassed briefly - only briefly - appeared in some corner of my thoughts. I was proud of what I have accomplished, but more so, I had gathered a respect for a great many things, and through those things both noble and verdant, I had grown a self-respect I had thought unassailable. And now, in my father's fancy of being in his final days, I was asked to surrender that which I loved most.

As I describe to you my interactions with both my parents and my brother I hope I won't appear to be too ungrateful. While it hasn't been my intention to tell you whether I was justified in those days to resent the situation put to me, I must continue to be honest as best I can. After all, if I could manage to be honest about my stay in the Royal Canterlot Palace, it follows that I could also be honest to you regarding my family. Perhaps it's unfair to say I really blamed any one of them, but at the same time, one can just about as easily decide to like something as they can decide to grow an extra leg.

In granting Father's wish, I had done my best to put aside my reservations, and indeed did what I could to mention the project as little as possible, for fear perhaps that I would not be able to entirely quiet my own concerns. I had learned much, I found, since the days of first arriving at the atelier, and although I had learned many things on how best to carry myself and how to consider the thoughts of others, I had found myself, through these new ideas, increasingly more challenged. When I had again seen Mother staring wistfully across the street I had decided to myself, rather suddenly, that my challenges now mattered little; and indeed my failure to see Father's idea as anything but what it was was of little consequence now. Simply, I had to carry out the task ahead of me, and whatever lay beyond that was a matter of another time.

A letter had come to the old house some days into the process of refining Father's design - really, reworking as much as could be reworked without changing some fundamental element - and as I was told by my brother, Padlock was now a happy mother of two baby fillies. He took a short moment then, when Mother had returned to the bedroom, to tell me for a while about the many hardships of parenthood. The more he spoke as such, the more I felt like he was describing some secret key to some other universe, and soon I felt like he was purposefully loading his esotericism with endless trials and tribulations. Eventually, I had to excuse myself to avoid further such instructions, taking to a long walk outside.

It wasn't the same, walking through the old neighbourhood. As I have mentioned, I had on a few occasions taken to exploring the differences and similarities with the Fillydelphia I had remembered, but on none of those expeditions had I gone out specifically like I had in my early days in Canterlot; when I craved nothing but for a calming wave of peace to wash over me. So it was that I risked the approach of another rain shower and circled my way towards the park.

The park was now small, no longer the woodland I had once rushed through when I had my cheek scratched by an errant branch. I felt even that it had become, somehow, smaller than myself. Futile though it may have seemed, nonetheless I followed my resolve and sat myself on the sole bench, perusing the few bushes around me. Curiously, and quite out of nowhere, I thought to myself about what it would've been like to walk the park's little paths with Kismet. It wouldn't take us more than twenty seconds to cross it, and there would be little novelty in lingering among its pallor shrubs. It had appeared to me then that we had just met for the first time, far away from the cafés and shops of Gleamstreet. I found myself wondering what else we would have to do to make use of our time. I considered the run-down bar for a game of billiards or picking up groceries from the re-opened corner shop, and thought of how awkward it would be if I had decided to introduce him to my parents. All of this seemed no less real than goodbyes that had been brought to me by mail, and yet I felt silly to even think of such long ago affairs.

When I had gotten up from the bench and almost had crossed the street I realised I had forgotten entirely about the windowed wall that was to be erected. Standing in the middle of the clear street (it was after all, the middle of the day), I looked at the centre of the park and tried hard to picture the piece. Although I could calculate the space required and could project its dimensions, I could not quite imagine the monstrous structure actually being there. I knew therefore that there was much work that still had to be done.

So I had dedicated myself, much as I had before, to make the most out of the assignment. Many times my brother had chatted needlessly about his situation at home and repeated his schedule of departure and so forth, but each time I was distracted by him or Mother's sudden talk of crosswords, I felt like I had somehow ended up on an island. I pictured on that island to be a garden, rich and untouchable as the royal gardens in the Royal Canterlot Palace.

I regret to say though, that in the time of meeting endlessly with council representatives and building contractors (I had requested a single mason versed in the classic style), Mother's condition had worsened noticeably with each passing day. On occasion she would stand there in the kitchen, seemingly unsure of whether or not she was to sit down or remain standing. We would then implore her to sit down, but her muscles had stiffened, and it was difficult even to move her. A doctor had come in to check on her every week, and whenever he had said that she seemed for now to be fine, I had felt myself grow angry with him.

I explained to my brother that it could be dangerous for her to continue living the way she has, and I followed him into the old room with a few ideas. I must admit that most of these ideas weren't in fact very clever, and most of them revolved around getting more and more ponies to check in on her. Doctors, neurotherapists, caretakers, and quite a few other such functions that came to mind then. At length, after going over a few doctor's appointments, he asked me, 'Where have you learned about taking care of the infirmed?'

You can probably imagine that when he asked this, he wasn't expecting an answer. In fact, whenever he had adopted that serious face, I took whatever came out of his mouth to be a really convoluted joke. In this particular case, I remember clearly that the room smelled to me of old sweat, and I assume it had been raining heavily and the windows had been closed long enough for the entire atmosphere to become bitter. I wondered briefly if the only reason he could start another talk on parenting in such airs was his dedication to hourly coffee.

Once, Father had to come out of bed in my defence, for Mother had decided I was a burglar in pursuit of her family treasure. She spoke then of the neighbours and their ghastly ways, already having conspired to kill all of her daughters and poisoned the stale candy that somehow ended up in the cupboard. 'At least sweet Greenway still lives across the street, somewhere!' she yelled. When Father had at last calmed her, she shrugged, apparently deciding, much like the way of a cat, that although we were villains, it was hardly worth her time to fuss about it. When they had walked off to the bedroom together, then, for the first time it felt like neither of them truly belonged in this life any longer, and when Gladstone returned that day I told him to call on the doctor and demand some more conclusive help.

In those weeks I learned more about strokes than I had ever desired to know. Assisting my parents felt very much like how my brother had described to me the plights of parenthood, but it must've been harder knowing that these fading husks had once been ponies I looked to as a source of strength and wisdom. It was so demanding, that although we still had our squabbles, my brother and I had silently decreed that, for now at least, there would be no room for any passive aggressive jabs or lectures on adult life. In return, I had done little more than strictly necessary in keeping with my schedule on Father's stained glass window. Regardless, however, I can honestly say that what little time I had spent on it had been spent with the maximum spirit and dedication I was afforded.

Not many days after the incident with the 'burglar', I was trying again to update Father on how the project was coming along, in part perhaps to distract myself from the uncomfortable talk that was going on in the living room. My brother and the doctor were convincing Mother to undergo surgery, and from the sound of it, they were hardly successful. Her memory span was such that often, when we were explaining to her something regarding the doctor's visits or even the whereabouts of her children, she would forget what we were talking about before we would finish the conversation. It was then quite difficult to go through the process of convincing her to go through with something as elaborate as that without her getting frustrated, tired, or even forgetting altogether who it was that she had suddenly found herself talking to. In any regard, I had hoped on that occasion to distract myself and in the process satisfy Father's wishes by making it clear to him how seriously I was taking his request. But, where previously he had shown a great care in droning up whatever details about his design I had not on that particular update mentioned, now he simply smiled and said, 'I'm sure you know what you're doing.' I wasn't entirely sure then whether or not he still felt as strongly about his 'honour' as he did previously, and had felt burdened by the notion that now I was to carry not only the labour of the undertaking, but also that of his passion.

On the day of Mother's surgery I had awoken with the sight of her fast asleep on the couch. She looked to me older even than the furniture that had been a part of the household for as long as I could remember, and I wondered what had gotten in to her to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night, only to then go to sleep on the couch. In some dim hope I thought perhaps that they had argued and had resolved to postpone their argument in the way that young married couples often did. That they had never done so in the years I had lived under their roof had only occurred to me later. Only when I had returned to the living room with a glass of water did another thought occur to me: my mother had gone there in one last, ultimate effort. One last gasp of life - perhaps even, in her last vestige of thought, a final effort to avoid the hassles of surgery.

I had of course known that there was a possibility that this could happen, but it seemed that I was nonetheless surprised. Perhaps I had expected the familiar holler of an ambulance. Indeed, I had pictured her going increasingly mad for a great many more years, growing old past the point of recognition or the ability to recognise anything herself. I wasn't quite sure how to feel about it. I did think again of finding her in the living room, staring across the street, and wondered briefly if she could somehow have seen those same ragged buildings so often over the years that in her final days she could see right past them. It was hard to imagine then what her view was and whether or not it had been truly so sad.

The few days I continued to sleep in the living room I had existed in the sense of privacy - the lack of it - that I had felt during the years I had lived under my parents' care so long ago. The arrangements were not pleasant in any way, but they were at least busy enough that at all points in time I was within reach of someone to talk to. It wasn't so much that I felt the desire to catch up with my siblings or confide in notaries, but certainly they desired to talk to me, and through satisfying their questions or their endless rambles, I in turn felt in some way assured. Although Padlock could not come so soon after child birth, we had taken turns in corresponding to her, but I must note that already I had assumed the larger portion of responsibilities that lay ahead of us. It was me who primarily looked after Father, and also, it was me who spoke to the many officials that needed speaking to. My brother, as I had learned soon thereafter, had received word that his wife had become sick and that he would soon have to return home to her. It was, I assumed, hard for him to see these two separate households as truly separate when it came to matters of health so it would not be inexcusable to think, even merely on some emotional level, that she too was breaking away from the tethers of this world.

Soon I was managing the care of the entire household and found myself able again, at last, to continue finalising the window. I had brought into the old room all the supplies and machinery necessary to convert what was once the bedroom I slept in to a makeshift workshop. Thus I was capable of working on the physical panels without being out of Father's reach. It had occurred to me that without further distractions, I would soon be able to walk him to the park and then, in some way, at last be fulfilled of the request. But, of course, it wasn't quite to go down like that.

I was certain that Father too had heard of the trend of wives and husbands dying in pairs or in quick succession, for when I called to him early one day, he said, excessively apologetic, 'I won't be able to see the window. From either side...'

I had of course tried to talk him out of this line of grim reasoning, but it was soon obvious he had made up his mind. As if on cue, rain had started pouring outside, thunder booming close-by. I indulged him on all his doubts: I assured him that he had been a good Father to me, and tried to tell him that I would call again upon his other children, but a curious expression took hold of his face then, and for a moment I wasn't quite sure he had not suddenly adopted another personality entirely. Straining to compete with the clatter of the rain, he said, 'It's very important to me, this. We've always had a special connection, early on. Parents are always told not to pick favourites because of those rare connections. Ours is our duty. This-' He thumped his hoof against his chest, pulling back the covers so he could show me '-Our duty to Princess Celestia. To Equestria. No one else would understand, and I would trust no one else to do what little things I have asked of you. I'm proud of you.'

What moved me then, in what would turn out to be his last real words to me, was his love; his love not just for me, but also for the rest of the family. Even then, I felt not able to be truly honest with him. I could not tell him how I felt about the 'monument' I was to erect; nor could I tell him about Princess Celestia. I had simply nodded to him then, telling him how much he had done for me and everyone else, and I felt sure that this had pleased him greatly. It was however, largely this failure I had felt; the failure to understand each other, that I carried with me for many days.

I could not pretend to the modest crowd that the unveiling of the stained glass window and its awkward piece of wall was a striking tribute to him, or even to anyone else. It will not surprise you then that I did not speak on the occasion, leaving the proceedings entirely to an eager mayor who spoke of the community and in doing so shared every dignified posture he was afforded. Behind a few suits and ribbons I found my thoughts wander far away from the incongruous artefact. Instead, I thought of the divide that had existed between Father and myself.

There were so many things that we simply did not speak of when he was alive; so many conversations we could not seem to have. I wondered if it truly was as difficult as I had felt it to be all those years of my adult life, and I even thought of his many years of making barrels. It was a curious thing to consider, and even as I was recounting to myself his career, I had remarked how oddly quieting it was to think of something so innocuous. When at last the little ceremony was over and I had left the park and its surrounding streets to the playing children and half-curious elderly I thought again of how many years Mother and Father had spent together.

Thereafter, whenever I had considered Father and the curious companion he referred to as honour, I reminded myself of how he appeared to me when I was far younger than I could easily remember. Not principled but strong; kind rather than right, and ever with a bounty of lemonade and stories. It would be at least a little odd to expect much more than that from someone. So it became apparent to me that much of that division I've written about had left this world alongside him.