.

.

I.

You are five years old, my child,

and you springboard across rooftops

as if you are weightless.

Others watch in wonder as you flip and turn,

the sharp angles of your small body

knifing the air like teeth.

You stop and my fingers press into your hair,

and you smile with dark wide eyes.

.

II.

You are six years old, my child,

and your hair is soft and fine.

My fingers smooth the rough knots back, and loose strands fall

in wisps around your face.

You are beautiful as I pull your hair back,

sweeping it across the smooth arc of your neck

and the curve of your spine.

You are six years old, my child,

and I have never seen you cry.

.

III.

You are eight years old, my child, and I watch at the door

as you play with your brother.

Small hand in yours,

chubby baby fat face smiling,

you scoop him up in your arms.

You are a genin now, and mission-weary; I see the toll on your tiny body,

in how your back curves like a willow bent in the rain.

But you light up around your brother, whom you tease and tickle

and you show him your forehead protector, of which you are so proud.

.

IV.

You are nine years old, my child,

when you wake up for the first time screaming.

Your eyes are a man's eyes, now, the Sharingan spinning even in your sleep.

I rush to your room and hold you but you

are shaking like a leaf.

.

.

Hush, my child.

This will not be the last.

You are nine years old

and I press my fingers against

the creases under your eyes.

.

V.

You are thirteen, my child, when everything ends.

Night falls,

the terraces of rice

still heavy with rain.

They do not stand a chance.

You fly, my child,

a black-winged bird

launching itself into flight.

Your katana sings like it is beautiful,

the crack of blood and bone

sickening in the wind.

.

VI.

You kill your uncle in the courtyard,

one swift strike of the blade

and his body falls with a dull thud.

.

You kill your cousins next,

dark eyes darting red, and rushing towards you.

But they are no match for you.

You take them without preamble,

the parabola of your sword

slicing through them with one clean strike.

.

What is it that you feel, my son?

That hollow, hateful feeling

that churns and courses through your veins?

My blood spreads at your feet like tide pools

as your ears pick up the soft hurried sounds

of your brother's footsteps

coming up the house.

.

VII.

You ask me,

"Mother,

What is my story?" And I say to you

your life is what you make of it.

This scar on your cheek, its pink translucent skin

the perfect shape of your loneliness,

cuts you like a knife.

.

Your eyes are no longer your own.

You wake in a cold sweat

as memories fall like boulders on your chest.

.

Do not cry, my child.

You are twenty-one,

and you are ready

to wash the blood off your hands.

.

VIII.

This is the last time I will speak with you,

your door closed, your dinner on a plate on the floor.

.

There must be something you loved, once.

Something that made everything bright.

Your eyes are closed

when you take the note in your hand

and let it flutter to the floor.