Summer Crying
a Short Story for the Modern Existentialist
A blue sky, clear of clouds.
The summer sun, high overhead.
The buzz of cicadas on the air.
A tall mountain, looming in the distance,
lush with green grass.
Purple blossoms on the trees, bursting in full bloom.A man and a small girl walk hand in hand. They make their way along a path which winds its way through the trees. The man wears a shirt and tie—the girl, a white sundress and a broad-brimmed hat to match.
The man holds a small bouquet of soft, white flowers. It hangs slack in his hand, drooping toward the earth.
“Papa,” Mira asks. “What are those?”
“Lilies, Kiddo.” Lee replies.
“Oh.” She says. “What are they for?”
“They’re for Momma.” He replies.
The mountain looms to fill the horizon, blocking out the sky. A narrow staircase sits at its base, cutting straight up its side. Long and weathered—built from bricks of smooth, white stone—it runs way off into the distance, stretching up toward the tall mountain’s peak. Up there, in the air—distorted by the heat—the hazy shape of a building’s shadow can just barely be seen. It rests upon the mountaintop; quiet, and foreboding.
The sun beats down. The climb is grueling and sweaty. Mira tires quickly. The two stop often to rest.
Lee squats upon the steps, resting his elbows upon his knees. He wipes the thick sweat from his brow, gazing up at the thin, blurry silhouette perched atop the mountain’s peak.
His shirt is soaked. He tugs at his tie.
Mira sits down, rubbing her legs and sandaled feet.
“Papa,” She asks. “Where are we going?
“To see Momma.” Lee replies. “I told you… didn’t I?”
“But where?” She asks.
“Up there,” He says. “At the top.”
“…Oh.” She replies.
They mount the white stone steps once more, setting off again. They climb in silence for a while.
“Is there a hospital?” Mira asks.
“A hospital?” Lee replies.
“Up there.” She says. “At the top.”
“…No, Kiddo.” He replies. “Momma’s not in the hospital anymore.”
“Why?”
“The hospital’s only for people who get sick—remember?”
“Oh… Right!”
As they crest the edge of the mountain’s peak, that hazy shadow looms into view.
The air is crisp and clear up here.
Open. Clean.
At the top of the steps stands an old garden-monastery. Through the arch of the gateway, Lee can see many buildings. All wood and stone, they stand hushed and tall—bounded in by the old stone of the high outer wall. They sit nestled among still, quiet ponds, and the green garden paths which wind in between.
There is no one in sight.
Mira’s eyes light up, and she forgets her fatigue. She runs off toward the nearest pond, getting way up on her tippy-toes—leaning far out over the railing.
“Mira!” Lee calls out. “Don’t wander off!”
“Aww,” She pouts. “But it’s so pretty here!”
“Hush.” He says. “We don’t want to bother anybody.”
Mira stops for a moment. Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head to the side.
“Hm…” She says. “Okay!”
Birds chirp, flitting through the trees. Leafy branches hang low—river-grasses growing high, as if reaching up to meet them. The trickle and ripple of running water washes all around.
Lee makes his way along, tracing the path of a winding stone trail. Mira runs happy circles around him, her arms spread wide like wings.
Then, just like that, she’s gone—disappeared. Lee turns quickly, searching all around. He finds her kneeling beside the path, watching a tiny yellow-flowered weed dance and sway in the breeze. He calls her name, and she runs to him—smiling.
They come upon a little stone bridge. Mira stops, leaning over the railing. The water runs clear, the moss and round stones of the shallow riverbed drawing her curious gaze. A pair of giant koi swim side-by-side, gliding in perfect tandem. Splotched red, and black, and white, they shimmer; incandescent in the sunlight.
An ancient tree stands tall and poised, alone upon a bed of grass. Its trunk is old—knotted and gnarled, its branches winding toward the sky. Lee walks the path beneath the boughs; underneath the rustling leaves. Mira stands transfixed by the time-worn giant, her eyes glowing wondrously.
A set of small buildings sit at the path’s end, lined up into neat little rows. Mira runs ahead as Lee makes his way toward them. They are brick and cement—cold, and withdrawn—each only just a single room inside. Little stone plates are set into the walls, lined up in perfect, good order. To Lee, they’ve always looked like filing cabinets. Bitter and joyless—tidy and unfeeling, like little stone drawers filled with ash and broken dreams.
There are words are etched into each of their faces. To some have been fastened a small photograph—to others, nothing at all.
One stone plate, set into the wall. One, among many others. Into its face are etched these words:
Dutiful wife.
Loving mother.A little portrait is cemented to the face of the stone, in the space beside those words. A young woman peers out into the world, lips curled in a gentle smile.
Mira points at the picture.
“Here?” She asks.
“…Yeah.” Lee replies. “Here.”
Lee steps forward. His hand trembles—his fingers brush just against the stone.
The lilies fall to the floor.
Tears well in his eyes. He hides his face in his hands. His knees feel weak—he lets them buckle.
Mira tugs at his sleeve.
“What happened?” She asks. “Papa, what’s wrong?!”
“…Four words?” Lee says.
A shuddering sigh escapes his lips. Mira clasps his hand tightly.
“Is that it?” He asks. “Was that all she was? Everything—just… four words?”
“Don’t be sad, Papa…” Mira says. “Don’t cry...”
“Do you understand, Mira?” Lee asks. “Momma’s gone. Who she was—everything she ever did. All of it… everything.”
Mira’s hands stiffen. She looks down at her feet.
“We’ll never talk to her—” Lee says. “We’ll never touch her. We’ll never see her laugh or smile again.”
Lee reaches out once more, placing his hand upon the stone.
“This… is all that’s left.” He says. “A picture… and four words.”
Mira wraps her arms around her father, burying her face into his sleeve.
“Don’t be sad.” She says. “Momma doesn’t like it when you cry.”
“…You don’t understand.” He says.
“…I do.”
“No, you—”
“I do!” Mira cries.
Lee stops, staring. His jaw hangs slack.
“Even if we can’t talk to her…” Mira says. “Even if we’ll never see her. Even if she won’t ever laugh or smile again… I know she doesn’t want you to be sad.”
“…Mira—” Lee says.
“Even if she’s far away… I know she wants you to smile.”
The air is damp. Sticky. Moss grows in the cracks in the mortar and bricks. Little vines and ivies wind their way along, bringing tiny flowers to bloom full and bright.
Lee smiles. He rubs at his eyes.
“Alright.” He says. “You’re right.”
He places his hand upon Mira’s head, tousling her hair roughly.
“Seems like you know everything today,” He says. “Huh, Kiddo?”
“No!” Mira replies. “But… I remember.”
“Hm?”
“Momma always smiled when you’d smile.”
Those who are gone before us live on in memory.
So long as I live—so long as I remember—she will not disappear.
She will remain with me—within my heart. By my side.
As real as the days she lived…
As real as the day she died.
