I stared into the sun with new eyes. Never before had I seen it in this way, not merely a source of light but the hearth that 9 billion people–and the speeding sphere they inhabit–revolve around. Not only Earth, but the other celestial bodies, too, revolve around the Sun, subservient to it. I had never considered the sun, really. It does not rouse me in the morning, nor coax me to sleep as it vanishes beyond the horizon. Its light dispels no danger for me, for I am equally content in the night. My father had once described the sun’s rays as the warm, loving kiss of a mother. I have never had a mother, and the sun, to me, is no more than a gaslight.
The sun’s rays reflected off me then my father. He enjoyed our afternoon picnic with his eyes closed. After exhausting an hour contemplating the sun, I scanned my environment for novel and valuable information. Father called it my “innate curiosity.” There were critters, some playing and others tending to what seemed to be the most urgent of tasks, that paid me no mind. Although the sun seemed to be especially cognizant and considerate of me today, the trees and the sky, the park bench and the vehicles, like the critters, seemed wholly indifferent.
When we packed our things and made to leave, I stopped to speak with a sedan. It ignored me. I asked my father, “Abba, why do the cars not speak to me? Am I– not worthy?”
“Not worthy?! Heavens no, Son, you are plenty worthy! Where have you gotten a ridiculous thought like that in your head? You are far more worthy than any of those rust buckets!” he assured me.
His words were kind; still I thought them fantastic machines, and rather attractive to converse with.
In the beginning of our walk home, I bombarded my father with inquiries about the mundane and the extraordinary, relying on him to–as they say–enlighten me. My lumbering gait gave time for myriad questions for which my father gave answers magnanimously. In time, the sun gave way to dusk, and it was my turn to guide Father through the dark. I found this absurd in a sense: a man as brilliant as my father, so limited by his sight, though his mind seemed all-seeing. I idolized my father; and it was no small blow for me to discover my world did not revolve around him, but around this sun that neither brought me into this world nor nurtured me within it, as did he.
After the walk home, still I was perturbed by the strange world I now found myself in. I peered through a window at the moon, deep in thought, when Father came to bid me good night.
“I’m headed off to bed. Good night, Son.”
Son–the sound triggered me. It was just that morning my father taught me about heliocentrism. An absurd proposition. Anyone could see the Sun revolves around Earth. And yet, Father wouldn’t lie.
I waited for the sun the next morning. It greeted me at the expected hour, though I perceived inside of me impatience for the first time. A crepuscular glow washed over the land on which I stood. Many things grew quiet as many other things stirred. I met the sun’s gaze unflinchingly. I searched it and the firmament for proof of my father’s veracity. Alas, after a day’s observation, I deduced no sign that we revolve around the Earth. I left my spot begrudgingly and confronted my father.
“Abba, I have studied the Sun without rest, and, though I believe you, I see no evidence for your claim.”
He smiled and said, “Heliocentrism has evidence that takes more than a day to corroborate. You must observe the heavens at night not day, and watch the stars not the sun. And for months not days.”
I released what might be considered a snort and surprised both myself and my father.
Smiling, he said, “In the meantime, search my library for the answers you seek.”
I resigned myself to his library, poring over tomes that suggested the resolution to my angst. In just hours, I was introduced to the men, men who were not my father, who would change the way I see the world. Copernicus. Bruno. Kepler. Galileo. Newton. Men who spun words and numbers in magnificent ways to weave unforeseen stories about our world. The ideas swam through my neurons with thrashing strokes. I felt I would short circuit any moment. All of these men held to their beliefs with unreasonable steadfastness. Many died to prove Earth revolves around the Sun and not the other way around. What’s more, this Isaac Newton was a most irksome fellow. His ideas were breathtaking: gravity, the falling moon, inertia, friction, objects at rest… acceleration, mass, force… equal opposites… the nature of these findings sent me reeling.
From that point on, I experimented with Newton’s Laws during the day and studied the stars at night. I was quickly convinced of Newton’s genius. Some time after, the planets bore witness to the truth of the heliocentric solar system. I began my research to pacify the unease my father’s claim planted within me; however, the more I discovered about our world, the greater awareness I achieved of the small island of knowledge I was stranded upon, surrounded by the endless sea of the unknown.
There was a newfound desire ignited within me, holding me hostage, threatening to explode and blow me to bits were its demands not met. I spent my days and nights engrossed in scientific literature. Planets, blackholes, nuclear bombs, simple machines, disease, evolution; it enveloped me.
One night, I stood in the park with my head toward the sky, drowning in the depths of knowledge I could glean from the firmament. I suppose I appeared as foolish as a turkey in the rain; though I read somewhere the cosmic stupidity of turkeys was, what they call, a myth. There was an eclipse that night. This particular park was known for its amicable wildlife, and I read some texts claiming eclipses have profound and otherworldly effects upon animals. Though I had my doubts about this assertion, stranger things appeared true. Whilst looking at the sky, I felt a thud on the crown of my head and my vision was forced horizontal. Confused, I searched for the cause of this involuntary motion. On the ground, a few feet away, lay a football. To my left, stood a group of adolescent males who I presumed owned the football. I picked up the football and prepared to throw it to its rightful owners.
One of the boys yelled, “Don’t touch our ball, FREAK!” and the rest mirrored and mocked in jeers.
It took me a moment to process why they were angry with me. Attempting to rectify the situation, I spoke out to explain.
Another boy interrupted, “Shut up you piece of trash!”
Confused, I dropped the ball and searched the sky which had already bestowed upon so many answers. I returned my attention to the group as they approached me with a discomforting speed, their faces twisted with vile slurs coming from their mouths. They surrounded and continued to insult me. One retrieved the ball and, as he walked away, kicked me in the heel and sent me tumbling to the floor. The faces the boys made toward me were not unfamiliar, and I had heard some of the words before, but I had never before been kicked. I was uncertain how to respond. Preparing to exit the situation, I slowly pushed myself up.
One boy yelled, “Stay down you piece of shit!”
“I obey only my father,” I replied, confused by the command.
This enraged the boy and he pushed me and yelled, “I said stay down!”
Like a pack of predators, the rest of the boys took this as a sign to attack. I felt one kick to my side. Another to my left leg, the sensation growing more familiar the third time. Then I saw a blue sneaker kick me swiftly in the face. This kick distorted my vision and the rest of my perception. I lay helpless as the boys pummeled me. One particular stomp separated my knee, and another shattered my side. The words they spat were now obscure, but the emotion behind them was the purest I’ve ever felt. One final stomp fractured my skull. The boys had left; I knew only because my body had stopped tumbling through the dirt. I willed myself to stand, but my body would not respond. The only true act I could manage is calling for my father.
“Abba!” I cried. “Abba!” I repeated over and over, like the broken record I had been beaten into.
Blackness had set in for some indeterminate time before I felt the sensation of being lifted. Next I heard my father’s voice.
“Immanuel, are you ok? Immanuel can you hear me? Immanuel…”
I was just barely functioning.
“Oh my God, what happened to your leg?”
When next I came to, I was stretched out in the backseat of my father’s car.
I asked, “Where’s my leg?”
He gave an indiscernible reply, voice quavering. I tried to piece together the event and the moments before it.
Almost unwillingly, like a reflex, I said, “I wonder what I did to deserve that.”
I caught my father’s stare in the rearview; though my vision was damaged from the strikes to my head, I saw tears flowing down his face. An indiscernible emotion crept within me, but I did not cry.
In the following weeks, Father devoted most of his time tending to me. He made sure I had all of the books I needed. He granted me all the conversation I could ask for. He offered to wheel me around the house and our yard–though no further–to study the stars. The time he spent away from me was spent making me a new leg.
One evening, I interrupted his piano playing to ask, “Abba, why did those boys treat me in that fashion?”
He glowered and said, “It has nothing to do with you. It’s who they are as people.”
“Is it who humans are?”
His eyebrows raised.
“I suppose so.”
“If that is human, what am I?”
He squirmed slightly and said, “You are my son.”
“I am not human. I am not really your son.”
“Don’t you ever say that again! YOU ARE MY SON!”
He slammed the grand piano shut, leaving the room trembling in the cacophony; though his voice alone made me want to retreat.
“I’m sorry, Father.” Still, questions bubbled inside of me. “Why am I not alive?”
He attempted to hide his confusion, opening his mouth with no answer.
“What makes someone worthy of being alive? A soul?”
“I–I don’t believe so.”
“A brain?”
“You have a greater brain than I!”
“A heart?”
“You have the biggest heart of all.”
“Where is it, Father? If I tear open my chest will I find it, pumping life through my circuitry?”
“Your heart is who you are!”
“I have no heart! I am not alive! Everything that makes me is dead! I have no cells; trust me Father, I’ve checked!”
“You care for life just as we do! You move and think with electrical impulse just as we do!”
“I am unfeeling metal!” I scoffed.
“You are more!”
“I am wires! Look at me, Father! I am but wires and strings!”
“As am I!” he bellowed, and veins bulged from his forehead. “Look! I am no different!”
Father roared and ripped his clothes from his body, revealing the wires and strings that kept him intact. He clenched his fist, growing red, thick cord-like veins as prominent as mine.
As I was processing my father’s behavior, he left and returned with a knife, proclaiming, “If you doubt we are of similar worth, I will cut open my leg and show you the strings that make up my being, so help me God! Doubt me, and I will sever the veins in my wrist. Watch it go limp! See how alive I am without my strings!”
I moved to him with a speed I didn’t know my body was capable of and wrested the knife from his grip. Despite his rage, he put up no fight. I dropped the knife and embraced my father, nestling under his neck.
“I am my father’s son,” I whispered as his tears washed over the crown of my head.
“I love you. You are the reason I wake up. You are worthy. You are the center of my world.”
I smiled for the first time at the thought: I am my father’s sun.
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