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Flash Memoir chronicle. Here’s a glimpse:

The writer discovers Aetheria (consciousness) amid a journal, through a 10-year

odyssey. Until birth, as an infant communicates a wish: Call me, “Sunshine.” Sunshine’s first
two years, at nine-month intervals, she’s resuscitated under particular conditions. Aetheria’s
puppeteering through a hostile milieu, persistent through Intensive Care Unit, challenges,
until her mother packed and left home, the witches and wizards volatilized, to lead a healthy
life.

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YD6~20 (1985 New Year): Aetheria

Sought Baroque Secretes Knotting
Strings
I step out the wintry chill to the doorway, exuding an embracing, welcoming warmth to
a twisted hemp cord dangling from a burning bulb over a central table. As I stepped behind
De-M’ma, to the smallest dugout, De-P’pa switched the table’s spring armed lamp, that
adorned the cluttered island table. He turned around to the portable television beside an
array of trophies and awards along the mantelpiece to a condemned fireplace. De-P’pa
fine-tuned to stand in front of the black and white presenter convex screen glow, He turned
away after he gathered the broadcasting news’ context.

De-M’ma’s gaze to wonder, questioning. ‘_Where would you like to sit?_’

My journey ended, to a bird’s fluttering wings trapped in cul-de-sac, the ceiling draping
curtains alongside the window picturing gray skies. De-M’ma picks the keys off the island
table, featuring. ‘_Come._’ as though her sixth sense to free from the trap, saying. “I’m
going to prepare something for lunch?”

De-M’ma turns away from De-P’pa, rounds me for the door before I could latch.
De-M’ma leads, needn’t call, foresee a mere distraction. As I followed De-M’ma, along the
wide corridor’s dark floorboards run toward the niche to the white marble balusters, with a
glance, asking. “[Flemish] Would you like endives?”

With a heartwarming smile. ‘_How thoughtful of De-M’ma! my favored dish._’

Absent shadow of my neonatal-deceased brother, whose name I bear, Together

In a stone-cold chill wrapped my body, descending the imperial staircase along the
balustrades to a wide railing, to the hallway. De M’ma sidestepped, reached and turned the
doorknob, pressing the door to a tender, welcoming warmth. I’m lagging closing the door,
while De-M’ma moved around the kitchen table, picking a shopping bag. By the far door,
juxtaposed to the window picturing the rear garden, saying. “[French] We’ll go to Nivelle,
shopping.”

That day, after our return, on the kitchen table, against the window picturing the gray
skies, De-M’ma wrapped endives in slices of ham. She moved right, to pick under the sink a
pan, returning to lie beacon-endives in series, stepping left with the pan to placing on the
coal stove. While dressing the table, standing by the sizzling endives. De-P’pa steps in to sit
around the table, I’m savoring the butter fried, pronounce bitter endives.

Chatting, we moved upstairs, the afternoon gray skies to profile De-P’pa seated at the
far corner of the table, against winter’s twilight eager night approached the window glaze.
De-P’pa bends alongside a spread of sheets checkered with hinged postal stamps with
missing pieces in the grid, domineering the table. Alongside a large magnifying glass,
De-P’pa peers with a jeweler’s attentiveness, following an otoscope’s dot of light in search,
explaining. “[Flemish] . . . the quality of a historical postmark.” Scrutinizing a postal
stamp at the end of tweezers. With the occasional tip of the tongue lick, stamp hinge, in an
exchange for a more perfect on his South African collection.

Across the table, De-P’pa faces another lifetime hobby, in trays of tagged record cards.
Reminiscent since my childhood, when De-P’pa’s fingers on the manual typewriter - TICK,
TICK, TICK. . . - With carriage return lever - TONK - updated individual families’ marriages,
births, deaths, corresponding with characters. The branches of De-P’pa’s Family Tree with
card boxes, to the corner of a desktop alongside the fireplace. As I’m seated by De-M’ma, at
the door side corner of the table, in the corner of my eye, insistent as we’re chatting around
the family, the mantelpiece throbs trophies and awards for attention, at sinking to mind.
 De-M’ma had her say. “[Flemish] De-P’pa spent so much money. . .”

“[Flemish] I’m bartering.” De-P’pa justifies.

By midnight De-M’ma rolled shoulders, lays away her knitting, saying. “[Flemish] I’m
going to sleep now — ‘_it’s time for all of us to have a good night’s rest.’_” As
De-M’ma rises, laying the knitting needles into the ball of wool onto her seat, I rose too.
Letting De-P’pa switching off the lights and the television, stepped out the room’s warmth
into the chilly corridor’s to a crispy hold of my clothes, I daren’t spare a thought, in fear,
creeping under my skin. Stepping away from De-M’ma and De-P’pa along the series of doors
- clang - the door to my room.

I stripped my clothes beating my records, to jump under the covers, sinking in the
mattress, froze stretched, while spinning a warmth cocoon. I dared peek over a load of
blanket the icy creeping air a slight move away. Awoken, I conjure a charming prince and a
beloved princess, sunk in a crude bulging mattress. My eyesight wandered along the high
ceiling dusted with a sweep of daylight sourced at the windows.

My eyeballs roll back, along the sidewall to the shadowy wall, reflecting a brass
swanneck spout’s ice stalactite adorning over the bowl. Brave, harsh telling myself. ‘_It’s
time to get up!_’ Beating the ice-crisp air from embracing me. I leap from underneath the
covers, my naked feet rushing to my clothes hanging over the backrest of a corner chair.
Crinkling at the touch, in hast I threaded my feet through my white cargo pants, rasping my
legs. a sportive shirt in mind holding the shivers rise through my spine. I slipped on socks, to
shoes, rushing to the door, unlatch, pull to the wide corridor.

My eyesight rush along the stripped floorboards’ run, while my ego lags in my step, my
harsh enveloping clothes subtle thaw heading for the balustrade’s niche. I descend alongside
the imperial white marble balustrades,

Every morning, as I reach the crisscrossing hallways, the chill mastered, I turn the
corner, passing the unmistakable wall’s exaggerated framed with an oil hunter on horseback
on canvas. Walk toward the portal’s imposing pane collage picturing the rear garden’s
trimmed evergreen trimmed statuettes, alongside the gray crushed stone lane, the edging
knuckled tree trunks’ gorge. I turn the key, crank the door lever, step to the perron, closing
the door. Descend the half-hexagonal tier few steps - CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH. . . - I
headed for the wood.

After an hour’s walking along a bridle path, breaking glass under my feet, frozen
ground, I emerged from the woods - crunch, crunch, crunch …. - I step the bluestone stairs
to the perron, with a door grip I step around the closing door. Off right, I palmed the brass
doorknob, with a wrist twist - clang - unlatch, and by the door crack, clearing the kitchen
table, hinging to De-M’ma profile loaded shoulders. Fixated on the window. The far
rectangular green grass patch, to the distant woods, into the skies, to wonder. ‘_Didn’t
De-M’ma hear me enter the room?_’ Until De-M’ma’s pull shoulders, straighten spine,
eyes glued on the windowpane, she whispers. “[Flemish] Did you sleep well? Wasn’t it
too cold in the room?”

De-M’ma’s moon in the Capricorn, and most emotion balanced characters of the
zodiac. The sun in her Monkey year, shrewd. She reared us siblings. I can’t ever recall
De-M’ma carried away by her emotions, I’m saying. “Yes, I guess!” Since De-M’ma
asked. ‘_What else is there to say?_’ The kitchen warmth welcomes me, as I’m
immunized against the chill.

From dazing at the window, emanates De-M’ma’s distant voice, saying. “[Flemish] It’s
full of rabbits — Although hunted, they keep coming up.”

Though De-M’ma’s words awoke in me, the scattered rabbit warrens’ holes sprawl
across the garden, discarded as molehills, to wonder. ‘_M’ma! What is happening? —
That’s not De-M’ma?_’ De-M’ma I know?_’ Flashback, despite our large family, and
while De-M’ma worked behind the counter at the Commercial, Goma’s superette. The
occasional large families in from the bush, to share beds.

De-M’ma’s heart cries out, saying. “[Flemish] You know! At the time, I thought it
was best.” De-M’ma’s thoughts carried further than the Baroque garden, airborne into the
skies low into the brushwood’ deep screen, to continents away, saying. “[Flemish] Look
now! At Ilona’s children? That’s from seeing their father mistreating her.”

I moved along the coal stove, its heat ironed out my pants’ chill. De-M’ma rounds the
table to the far wall, toward the middle to the kitchen sink. Plunges dishes, saying.
“[Flemish] My hands’ joints are sore. . . ‘_From this cold water.’_” In a distressed tone
of voice, with a bleeding heart, pouring out. “[Flemish] You know...” De-M’ma said. “...At
the time, I thought it was the best.”

De-M’ma sighed. “[Flemish] Look now! At her children?

That is from seeing their father’s behavior.

I told Our-Ilona at the time. The best is to get married.

Our-Ilona was only a child then. What did she know?

That wasn’t the advice she sought.

She had confided in me, and I let her down.”

De-M’ma paused, sorrow in her voice. “[Flemish] If I had to do it again! And to

think, Ilona didn’t really want to marry Johnny.”

Midmorning, on Monday, when rubber tire treads roll crushing stones to a halt
De-M’ma says. “[Flemish] Gerard made Our-Ilse the way she became. She was such a
sweet girl.” De-M’ma steps out of the kitchen, to the portal and out on the half-hexagonal
bluestone platform. Ilse and Gerard alight the dark Volkswagen Golf, carried in shopping
bags, greetings in exchange. They entered, an in the kitchen unpacked the week’s expired
pastry and a bread loafs. The little crowd vanishes to the barrel wall’s turret corner room.
De-P’pa stoking logs to the fireplace.
 By afternoon, Ilse raises a farewell voice, saying. “[Flemish] Gerard has to get up at
four in the morning. . .” To the thought of a slogging routine in a baker’s cellar workshop.
Mixing, fermenting, makeup, proofing, baking, to bring up from the cellar to her back office,
clap the loaf release finger burning release to the racks, to cricket crust crackling. so that at
seven o’clock, Ilse can slice and package by the doorbell to customers entering by the front
door at their demand. Ilse ringing up, in the corner cash register drawer, to displays with an
assortment of pastries and pralines._’ Ilse and Gerard descend the rear portal, greeting, to
step into the Golf. Drive away in a circle crunching a medieval moat ballasted to a 1912
crusher stone, turn the corner, disappear behind the blind corner. De-M’ma turning away,
divulging. [Flemish] That’s our-Ilse’s Monday routine, obligated to close shop a day in the
week.”

I’m awaking with a wink at the loft window, spring’s eager twilight skies, as I lie in the
single bed alongside the mansard room’s low end sloping ceiling. I rose to dress for work.
Descend the staircase, with a lingering thought, passed the landing, skipping Ilse and
Gerard’s door to the main bedroom, dropping a lost thought. ‘_The matrimonial bed
permanent warm._’ I descend from the street level floor to the shoulder tight spiral stairs,
greeting Gerard. The man is sturdy as an ox, his presence amid a bread oven, loafs and
French Bread shines behind a window. White flour powdered S-kneading hook, to an
industrial-scale dough mixer bowl. I’m greeting Gerard, turning away by a stainless-steel
chocolate melting pot, streaking over a cold heating pad, drips along the cabinet. Climb the
stairs to step out in the early morning deserted side street.

Molenbeek’s Jubilee Boulevard distancing, as I head for the backstreets, the chocolate
melting pot I left behind teasing my mind, by a disgusting dark chocolate drips runs off the
cabinet. Reason a self clean unfetter when heated again, instead of a pristine return after a
plunge in soap and water. I neared the far corner, to the ditched metro line. I step the block
length, turned crossing the overpass, cross borders to Jette’ community and toward a blue
translucent Belgica metro station balloon. But dropped my attention on a mouthwatering, but
closed French fries kiosk, to savor on my return from work.

I stepped up to the barn doors, into the Porte Cochere to a sheltering construction
depot. At the rear Toyota panel van’s tailgate, after a first meeting in the workshop, the
pudgy, and the African artisans introduced himself, saying. “[French] I’m married to a
white woman!” I discard his strange greeting as a blunder. With the African I stepped in
the cabin’s passenger seat, while the pudgy artisan stepped into the driver’s seat, started the
engine, shifted into gear, pulling out the workshop swerve into the street.

Amid Uccle’s stylish villas, the pudgy driver steers ingress on vehicle tracks through
the grass paved with concrete slabs to a halt alongside the brick facade. We alight the pudgy
driver, kidding in a construction slang, gather courage with a smirk. With the African, I
rounded the tailgate’s taillight to the panel van’s opened sliding door. He shifted a gypsum
bag upright onto the edge, to heave to his shoulder, to turn away and headed for the
entrance to the house. After whom, I followed the African, shouldered with a gypsum bag,
trailing into the house’s shadows. I lingered at a pace, the pudgy man grimaced struggling
midway along the flight of stairs to the landing. I trailed both men, onto rising through the
upper floor entry to the artist woman’s bare rafters, ridge beam, hip rafter bare loft studio.
 By Friday, the Forman arose from the staircase’s floor, with a skimming eyesight, how
far I’ve progressed plastering the mansard’s walls, and slanted ceilings between rafters, hips
and ridges, to chat for a while, then asking me. “[French] How many workmen did you
have working for you?”

“[French] I had about ten contracts simultaneous on the go.”

“What was your turnover?”

Entangled in my thoughts, Belgian Franks’ chain of zeros without a decimal point, I

said. “Three million.”

“[French] That’s nothing,” He replied.

I said. “[French] I must be confusing by the zeros.” But The foreman turned away.
My ego pinched< but I’m telling myself. ‘_What’s the use! To go on defending myself
with a complex metal calculation!_’ I finished plastering the artist women’s studio, to
return in the evening jumping on the metro to Brussels’ Central Railway Station.

Spring in the air, the golden Opel’s rubber tread rolls the crusher stones to pull up
miniaturized in front of the rear garden’s rectangular lawn patches with trimmed shrubs.
Alighted De-M’ma’s cousins, the Somers Frans, August, and Mariette invited by the rear
portal, to the hallway and into the adjacent dining room. By early afternoon, the Somers
cousins, step with farewells standing by the Opel’s windows to steer away.

“Can I borrow the car?” I asked De-P’pa. Eager to enter a social life, stepping toward
the evening skies framed by the rear portal to the Polo. Pulled the door, descended the porch
stairs, to step in the Polo circles, to drive around the castle, to the front lane, veering onto
the farm road. I cruised through Houtain-le-Val, Egressed the villagey houses to the main
road, steering toward Nivelle. When I’m swearing, the road curve, to a car head-to-head
lane approach, swearing. ‘_What in hell… I’m in the wrong lane!_’ I swerved to the right
lane, passing the car, reminding myself. ‘_From now, steering out an intersection.
Verify twice, you're not in South Africa._’ I bypassed Nivelle to for the on-ramp to
accelerate on the highway due north. I cruised along the leading lanes, crossing the
language frontier into the city’s evening traffic. At the Western interchange, deviating from
Brussels to cross to Flanders on a course toward the coast. Along the polder, the off-ramp
never coming, Then off-ramp road sign repeated “Ghent” at closer interval, I entered the
contemporary Flemish city outskirts, aging along the canal nearing to the medieval center, to
park along the curb.

I stopped to the cobblestone street, step the curb, prolong the shoulder wide sidewalk,
along the warped wall of villagey houses’ squeeze changing row of Baroque facades.
Alongside a stocky wooden door, beside a tavern window featuring in the shadows secrete
whispering figures close across a table, a latent ulterior sign Aetheria is knotting strings.
When at a pace of the door, leaf hinging back, to a clearing, a bar stretched into the depth? I
duck inside a dining hall’s tight walls. I turned to stand beside a young man, greeting Martin,
my jovial Aeries invitee. He leans across to a woman at the bar’s end corner, interrupting her,
speaking with the barman, saying. “[French] My sister Chrystel.”
 Late in the evening, while conversing, Chrystel said. “My brother converted to
Judaism. . .”

I’m standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, Chrystel’s heartfelt chemistry ceases at
the curb. I seized her idle moment, for the good or bad, to continue the moment, saying.
“[French] Can I offer you a drive home?”

The Capricorn in Chrystel says. “[French] I have my car.” She steps off the curb to
the cobblestone street, heading toward a car’s sheen across the soft lit street, I turned away,
head along the sidewalk, to step into the Polo, with a driving past behind car, taillights
distancing. by the door swing, I step in to lower behind the steering wheel, drive away
seeking a turn around street from getting lost heading out of the city. I neared the distant
neon plasmatic horizon. Borrow the on-ramp to the highway. The Polo’s little engine whining.
Neither I, seem to ride out the worming yellow barrel vault, from reaching Brussels Ring.
Exhausted, at the thought emanating from the bilingual capital, thereafter, continues in
Wallonia along interminable deserted lanes toward for Nivelles, then the country road to
reach the castle.