The Sun

No one remembers the sun. If they do, it’s only bits and pieces. All that’s left of the sun, for everyone else, is the stories. The way it could warm up the coldest person. The magic it had to make the sky a kaleidoscope of colors.

My grandma remembers the sun. She would always tell us stories of the light in the sky. She tells us of the days when she’d run with her siblings playing tag. Then her voice would go solemn when she remembers when The Factory opened. I’ve personally never seen it in person, but from what I’ve seen and heard, it was your typical factory: bulky, with lots of chimneys poking out. Lots and lots of chimneys. They say that The Factory could produce more goods faster and better than any other factory in the world. The cost, however, was the pollution it made. Soon enough, the sun would only peek out of it’s cave of smog when it felt like it. The Factory was shut down but too late. There was already too much smog and pollution to live with. After that, everyone was forced underground. We’ve learned to survive . . . . . although I know we aren’t at our best. We’ve been down here for 80 years, about.

Some people in each city are forced to go on the surface to try and clear the pollution The Factory made. My father and mother were among them. How they did that, I have no idea. All I know is that the surface (and everything with it) took my father and mother. They spent too much time up there. My father said he was doing the right thing. My mother didn’t like the work but she didn’t complain. But then it came back at them. They both died of lung cancer. All I have left from him is a heart shaped locket. Inside is a picture of me and my mother. My mom was always known for her beauty. Her beautiful black curls and her chocolate eyes. She was kind to everyone she met, even the people I found hard to get along with. I have my mothers looks (except for her curls; my hair’s straight as twigs), my father would say, and then add that I had their best personalities. My mother’s kindness and creativity as well as my father’s perseverance and intelligence.

I miss them so much. It can’t be put into words how much I miss them. All I’ve got left is my grandma. And my friends Nate, Katie, and Anne Marie. I’ve known them all for as long as I can remember. They all are there for me when I need it the most.

* * * * *

I sit at my computer. A few years ago, I took up writing and I’ve been at it ever since. Today, I plan on finally putting my work out to the world. I’m nervous because you never know what to expect from people. They might like it or they might hate it, and to make it worse, tell you so. As I put the final touches, I listen to music from the 21st century. Only one song sticks out to me. It’s a song called “Tomorrow” from the play “Annie”. In the song, Annie sings:

When I’m stuck with a day that gray and lonely

I just stick out my chin and grin and say ohh

The sun’ll come out tomorrow

So you gotta hang on till tomorrow

Come what may

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love ya tomorrow

You’re always a day away

If only, I thought. But I couldn’t help feeling like it was possible. Maybe, one day, I’ll see the sun. Maybe, I’ll get to see the brilliant light in the sky. Like she could read my thoughts, my grandma says, “There’s a path to the surface, Nyssa.” I’m startled by her voice. I mean, I knew there was some sort of path there because the workers had to get there somehow. But most of them were cut off when the mayor deemed the situation “impossible” and “not worth the danger, nor their time and dedication.” Still, the idea of seeing the sun is intriguing.

“How?” I ask.

“Follow the danger signs,” my grandmother says in her rigid voice, ”There will be masks by the entrance to the surface that I strongly suggest because otherwise you will suffocate.” It didn’t sound like a suggestion. “Then there will be a mountain to your left. Take the worn trail. Don’t stop until you reach the top, understand?” I nod. “Then why are you still here, move!”

I rush out the door and I find a promptly put DANGER! Sign about one hundred yards from my house. There seems to be a trail of them. How inconspicuous. I follow them until there’s an old iron gate. Who uses gates anymore? We’re in the 23rd century for crying out loud. Nowadays, we have electric fences so that if you even try to go through it, you get electrified.

The gate’s not that tall so I just climb over it. There either isn’t a security system or it’s broken. I walk up the slowly increasing slope. Just as Grandma said, there were masks on a hook nearby the exit. Although they aren't the typical mask. They're more like the ones for hazmat suit. I put one on. Like the entrance, it’s the same iron gate. Again, I climbed the gate.

The surface definitely lived up to the rumors. There was no color. Just brown, beige, black, and gray. To say it was sad would be an understatement. Try depressed. I try not to think about it as I look for the mountain.

“There,” I say out loud pointing to the nearby mountain.

I take the worn path just as Grandma said. I begin to wonder how she knew about all of this. News Feeds? My father? Being here herself? I am just beginning to realize how little I know of my grandmother. I guess I was never really close to her before my dad and mom died. Now, I was in a way forced to because I’d rather at least get to know more about my grandma than live without a single biological family member. Family is everything to me and I was devastated when Dad died. The only people who could comfort me were my grandmother and my friends.

I suddenly stop on my trek up the mountain. The cloud of smog seems just within my reach. I reach to touch it but it doesn’t feel like anything. I make sure my mask is on right and hike to the top of the mountain. What I find there is unbelievable.

The sun.

The sun in its wonderful, brilliant, blinding light. My eyes ache but I can’t tear them away. It’s beautiful to say the least. Not only that, but the immediate warmth it gave. It felt like . . . peace. The comforting warmth it gave and the yellow tint it left on my skin.

Then I realized something else. The sun is starting to sink into the horizon. There are few white ropes in the sky. My grandma called them clouds. The sky turns to a brilliant gradient of multiple colors. The clouds reflect those colors adding depth to the piece of art before me. The sky’s red to orange then it turns purple-ish. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It makes me believe in miracles, because that’s exactly what the sun is. One humongous miracle that has power beyond our imagination. The sun is so wondrous and I feel humans of the past took it for granted. Like most things, you don’t appreciate it until it’s gone. I stay there until the sun disappears into the horizon.

I planned to leave, but then the moon came out from behind me. And the stars with it. The moon reminded me of a luminescent white ball. It had a sort of glow with it. The stars were better jewels than the best miner could find. They twinkled in their glory, drawing pictures in the pitch black sky. I remain in the same spot for what must have been hours just thinking about the sun and the moon.

I realize I will have to come down. As I walk down the worn path I think of all the stories my grandmother told me. How they didn’t hold a candle to the real thing. I have to show this wonder to everyone. I made a silent oath that the sun never be forgotten again but rather the most remarkable thing in history.