The second night of South Africa.
A squall wrathfully has the land soaked and wet.
Lightnings ripple the dark sky.
Thunders roar onto the yellow Earth.

 

A little girl around the age of 5 in the next room is amusingly inquisitive.

“What’s your name?”
“Why are you alone?”
“What do you do?”
“Why do you eat dinner?”
“Why do you get hungry?”

Then all of a sudden she bends her knees and sits on her butt on the floor, telling me “Oh! Something is pushing me down! So heavy that I can’t move my legs. Can you pull me up?” She extends her arms towards me to invite my hands to hold hers. By holding her underarms, I lift her up and have her jump back to the standing position. We repeat this new play a few times.

Her dazzling questioning continues.
“Do you have daddy?”
Unlike to the other questions, this one freezes my mind for 0.0001 second.
“Yes, I do.”
“What language do you and your daddy speak?”
“Japanese”
“Why Japanese?”
“Because we lived in Japan,” noticing myself mixing the present and past tenses, which clearly reflects my psychology. Different voices debate in my head, how honest shall I be to this little girl who I most likely won’t see again?

“I have daddy but he is now gone. Up in the…” pointing my index finger upward, while I feel awkward to complete my sentence with the word “heaven.” I skip it by replacing with the gesture. I ain’t sure which words to use to the girl. At the same time, I laugh at myself who is automatically about to using a cliche explanation about death to a kid. Is that me? Nooooo.

She asks, “why is he gone?”
“Because he is dead,” said I, without hesitance.
“Why is he dead?”
Another pause my mind has to take. That’s an interesting question. I wanna know, too. Why?

“That’s a good question. …..Because he was called.”
“Why was he called?”
This question really really gets me like lightning strikes.

Why?

(A deep breath)

Why?

A riddle yet to be solved.

“That’s another good question honey. …..He was called because it was his timing. Everybody is called at their own timing. I will be called someday. You will, too.”

Her name is Rosy.
A minstrel with a rose sings for his life (which is equal to death).