Broken
By Lisa Zaza
casazaza@shaw.ca
September 16, 2007

     How long had it been since I saw tears fall so freely from my son's
eyes?  Since I had felt the need to pull Apollo into my arms and hold him
tightly, hoping with each passing micron that his body would stop shaking
with his sobs.  I stroked his dark hair, muttering comforting words that
my own mother used to say to me when I was a child.  Shush, Adama. It
might not feel like it now, but everything will be alright.  It simply
takes time.  
     But we were running out of time.
     "Gone."
     One single word that was more like a guttural cry of pain than any
real attempt to talk to me, to convey how he felt.  It tore at my heart
as I looked upon my firstborn son.  As far back as I could remember, he
had strived to retain his self-control in any situation, remembering
proudly who his father and grandfather were, and endeavouring to conduct
himself similarly.  This despite the fact that Apollo was a gentler soul
with a sensitive side that his mother had nurtured, knowing one day he
would be a leader of men, and as such, would need to understand and
exercise compassion.  So many times he had made me so proud.  It only
made this even harder to bear.  His green eyes locked onto mine, willing
me to make everything all right.  Against all probability, he still
looked to me for a miracle.  After all, wasn't that a father's role?
     "I'm sorry." I whispered back to him, patting him a little awkwardly
on the back.  As much as I loved my offspring, such public displays of
emotion were still difficult for me.  People nearby seemed to stop and
stare, and I held their gaze sharing my private contempt for their
intrusion, before they hastily looked away.  "If I could change it, I
would, Apollo.  If I could only take it back . . ."
     For that was the worst part.  It was mainly my fault.  The reason my
son was now crying in my arms, completely broken down, was directly the
result of my . . . utter recklessness and carelessness.  
     Apollo sniffed loudly and pulled back from me, turning his head to
the side as he wiped his arm across his face, trying to hide the pain so
evident on his features.  I could see his dark eyelashes blinking
rapidly, attempting to fight back further tears as he sought to regain
control.  He sucked in a deep breath between clenched teeth.  He was
clearly embarrassed by his emotional turmoil, and was only now beginning
to notice we had attracted some attention.  I didn't quite know what to
do then.  
     "I wish . . ." He broke off, shaking his head and then covering his
face with his hands.  
     I briefly saw the guilt on his features, and felt even worse that my
son was shouldering his share of the responsibility for this nightmare.  
I realized then that I would do anything in my power to try and make this
right between us.  
     "What?" I asked, a gentle and encouraging smile on my face.  "Tell
me, son."
     He glanced back at me, then down at the broken Starfighter gathered
into his small hands, a natal day present that I had brought him which he
had carried with him everywhere for a solid secton-right up until he had
forgotten it on our front doorstep.  My boot print was still on the
fuselage, where it was cracked in several pieces, the canopy completely
shattered.  Then he looked forlornly at the military hovermobile waiting
to take me back to the Space Port for yet another extended tour of duty. 
He blinked back tears once again, before meeting and holding my gaze.  "I
wish it wasn't . . . broken."
     So simple a wish.  So impossible to grant.  "So do I."

The End