He ruffles my hair with his wind, this power he has to control the currents of air. It blows right through my thick, wavy locks like a good wind should. It doesn’t make me smile like it usually does, though, because I’ve got that sour look of a kid who’s five and doesn’t want his dad to leave.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he tells me, bending down to look me in the eye. The world around us is dark because it’s like four in the morning, the tick of an old pendulum-powered clock the only thing that breaks the silence of the early morning. I can see his eyes in the dim light. We’re in my room; his face is inches from mine. I can smell that strong scent he has, sweet and musky, something I’ll forever associate with him. My hands are woven tight across my chest. He’s left before, many times, to do “important work,” in his words.
“It’s just for a few weeks,” he says, and even at my young age I can hear the strain in his voice. I know I’m not making it easy on him, and there’s a rough satisfaction in that. “Then I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll bring Sierra with me.”
This drives me further into my shell. Sierra is my new stepmother, whom I’ve met exactly once. It was not a happy meeting. I can feel my face; there are no tears running their course down my cheeks. I say nothing, in preparation for my sullen, resentful teenage years.
