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I discovered 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 the Intensive Care Unit, challenges, until her mother packed and left home, the witches and wizards volatilized, to lead a healthy life.

YD6~22 Chrystel’s lead to Aetheria Embracing Lia’s persona

I awoke, heading from the mansard downstairs, to a landing door, across Ilse and Gerard’s main bedroom. In the shower I step, shower, dry, dress, slip on moccasins. I step out of the shower to descend. Clearing the bakery’s back office, tantalizing and seducing my willpower, I step out onto the side street. Heading toward the boulevard, I pass the cellar’s slit window, along my strides, turn the bakery’s store window, turn the corner and alongside “Gerard’s Bakery” splashed crescent, I press the bell jingle door. I step across the bluestone doorstep, calling Ilse’s gaze to caution. The door closing jingles, as I greet stepping up to the delectable pastry display counter, pointing in our dialect, saying. “[Flemish] Can I have one of those?” 

Ilse’s slink in symbiosis Cat in the Chinese year, pouncing gaze falls from a lock on her older brother. She moves away from the cash register along the aisle behind the display counter to an assortment of pralines and pastry on the glass shelves. Her eyes roam through the glass displayed, her voice meows. “_’Is that what you want?_’ — [Flemish] A Maton?” I nod in agreement. She selects a golden small yellow puff cake. Its cheesy texture of curdled milk waters my mouth. While my sister, husband, Gerard’s sturdy Ox, dampened her Cat-Gemini spirit with his avarice. In her stepping back, draws me along, my hand dipping in my pocket, fumbling for coins. Cornered by the layout of the display counters, open palm, Ilse pecks coins, to pocket the change. Around the cash register she hands the Maton snapped in a paper serviette. Rings up the purchase, as I’m turning away, refrain from biting a piece, until I am outside in the street. With the closing door’s dying jingles, I bite,  savoring the pastry, at my pace along the sidewalk.

I’m walking through community margin brick wall streets. Passing impressive doors, and windows reflecting pieces of the facing sunlight townhouses in a row. I head toward the unemployment office in Molenbeek. recalling the hallway posted billboard the previous business day for my alphabetic listing, “10hr00.” 

De-M’ma leads me out of the cozy crafting and study little room. We step along the floorboards. Ahead, the white marble balustrades guide our descent. Follow the imperial handrail, reaching the crux of the hallways. Passing through the majestic white marble sculptured archways, De-M’ma turns the corner, facing the portal. Picturing the rear baroque garden. De-M’ma turns the door key - clang - unlatches the latch bolt. She steps onto the perron and descends the half-hexagonal stair-wrap. - crunch, crunch, crunch. . . - we step around the Polo’s radiator grille and headlight muzzle to grip the doors and step inside the car. 

As we drive away, De-M’ma keeps on insisting. “[Flemish] You must register yourself. Go to the office of unemployment benefit.” Pigheaded, De-M’ma softens my ego, standing tall. ‘_Jobless lazy people._’ I couldn’t stoop myself to the level of homeless people. 

In my mind, I’m trekking my body to the outside paired doors. By joining daily tailing a line. In a swamp of young Moroccans, and barrel shaped veiled women, to scarce white people. The head of the tail standing up to the right closed door leaf which trailing out the yard, turns the corner to the street. Scattered figures arrive from different angles to the line behind me. The trail creeps. I advance along the long line at the rate of young men spilled from the left dark hollow doorway to the street. 

I entered the hall, advancing toward a day to day, changing faces behind a barrage of wickets. At my turn, I sprint to a brisk stride, approaching the clerk’s wicket. I placed my unfolded attendance card on the wooden counter, and slid it through the slot. The clerk palm the knob of a stamp, her hand slips offside to the metal box’s reddish ink pad and dabs, returns the rubber nib meticulous point a grid. With a hand roll. Without sparing a glance, her left set of fingertips slid the card toward me. blank diary cases gradually fill with the additional organic motif. I retrieve the card off the counter, turning away. Folding the card, return to my Seven Star Diary purse to pocket my wallet, walking out the administrative building.

Besides the Belgica translucent balloon, I descend the escalator by the surrounding railing, the sidewalk hollow to the metro platform. Waiting for the Orange box shaped train figuring the wide windshield dwarf the conductor. Trundling past, the moving windows flick a strip of scarce scattered passengers to halt. facing doors - Clack - Opening. I stepping inside to stand in front of the closing door - Clack -. Outside, the bright platform slips behind, breaking off to sudden darkness, riding the tunnel, breaking out to a wide open  brightness to various stations. 

I disembark at Botanical Garden, to walk a few rear blocks weaving narrow streets toward the North Station. Veering away from the traffic of cars vanishing into the shadowy underpass. I’m crossing a traffic island and away from the reminiscent red district. in parallel to the elevated railway, I’m walking the rear offset block. Past workmen squeezed brick townhouses, breached by a 1970s yellow brick administrative architecture. I press the plate-glass door swing and step around. Walk amidst a two-way trickle of gloomy faces, prolonging the curtain wall’s ramp up to the other extreme’s dogleg.

As I’m recalling my previous visit, with a difference, I pull a ticket from the take-a-number dispenser stand. I step away toward a seated crowd scattered across rows and rows of the waiting hall’s chairs. All the figures face a barrage of figures and shaded wickets athwart the front. I walk along the last row of vacant chairs, glancing at my fingertips, pinching the orange paper tab. Counting the time I’m bound to waste, amidst opening and shutting roller shades to the counters, a staff rotation. The young men, and women with children seated in the hall, relative amongst discrete pillars, figures’ movement standing up to the clerks, recalling my experience registering for unemployment benefits. 

As I’m waiting, allowing myself to familiarize myself with the red neon numbers’ flicking counts, I'm lined up for a separate and far-left wicket. The fascia spells across. “[Flemish and French] Information and Drop off Attendance Card.“ I follow an accelerated movement of people to stand by, while other people approach at arm's length drop off their card to turn away and leave. I scoot to the edge of my chair, until the number before mine flashes. My impatience getting the better of me, I rush across greeting the female clerks, handing her my month’s stamped Attendance Card. I ask for a change of point office from Molenbeek’s Brussels region, to Nivelle, that is in Wallonia. Furthermore, I ask. “[French] How long is my unemployment registration valuable, when not claiming unemployment benefits?” 

the clerk says. “[French] Three years. Thereafter, you’ll have to re-open your folder, to have rights to unemployment benefits.” I turn away, reflect over her words, after thanking the clerk. I head across the hall and out in the city streets.

I’m boarding the train at The North Station, and seated by the window, reminded of my childhood with Igor, refugees from the Belgian Congo, traveling alone cross-country. These platforms’ polluted flaring wrought-iron columns, underneath lit canopy, slip back and behind the window. Those days we learned the atlas, the city journey confused by an underground traverse with a stop at Central Station. emerging into the open air and raised above city street pulling in along the elevated South Station. The housing distanced into the countryside, and revolved around the window until I alighted in Nivelle. I step out of the train station, heading from the last row of townhouses to the countryside. Along spreading tilted fields, when the left horizon arouses Spring painting a pointillist greenery to the distant old brushwood. I contour the woods from the asphalt roadway, turning off onto the cobblestone farm road. I rounded the Chateau-du-Bois, to step up the perron, crank the portal door, to the kitchen door. meeting De-M’ma. I’m reading her Monkey’s enthusiastic eyes, ‘_You have found a friend. . ._’  Welcome me excited, saying. “[French] That mister called again. He left a message for you — I wrote it down on a piece of paper next to the phone.” 

I pull the door, stepping out of the kitchen, to the awkward charcoal plastic sheen of the telephone cradle. Slim and classic modern discard for the imperial marble balustrade decor of the stairway’s wrap. Lifting the handset to dial the number, I read from the paper pad attached by a ball and chain to a pen. After a brief conversation, I hang up, turn away from the emphatic classic cloth draping tassel cloth over a little tabletop. arouse a heartfelt warmth for Chrystel. Yet, I was plagued by the evening. I drove to Ghent to return along leading highways by a whining little Polo’s engine into the early hours of the night. I returned to De-M’ma, saying. “I might need your car?” In stealth, saying, ‘_I’m going out._’ Knowing, I’ll have to go to De-P’pa to get the keys.

At the wheel of the Polo, I’m driving through the bustling Friday evening traffic, arriving at the South Station. Amid the throngs of pedestrians, Chrystel’s brother, Martin, emerged from the hallway to the curb. He pulls the passenger door swing open, greeting, steps into the car, directing me to turn around, and stray from the traffic lens. We initiate the little Beltway, to deviate from  the flow of traffic through the tunnel, for the trickling service lanes. At the Halle Gate’s medieval drawbridge, I steer the car outbound into a stifling street. Through rows of brick townhouses, their craggy flanks tapering sloping through the distant valley. We coasted halfway down the block, until among a chain of cars, a parking bay opened, to park the car besides the  brick facade style punctuated by windows teamed by an entrance door, underneath a wrought-iron balcony to French doors. I step to the asphalt, to hold my pace until Martin’s symbiotic Aries agile circles around the bumpers by the Polo’s tailgate. He leads our way across the deserted street toward the only barn doors in the mile long block. Reaches the call button, and as we wait, I’m unaware that the two-digit street number brands my memory. At the seam of the paired doors, barn - buzz - Springs, Martin to press the door leaf opening to a Porte cochère through the townhouse. 

The left crack of a doorway slit up the wall, widens as we near a set of double doors. Martin ascends the elongated step, grips the door lever, the door leaf hinging right back. Reveals a scene of elderly couples seated at tables covered with white tablecloths, enjoying a Shabbat’s evening meal. The chef emerges from behind the door, menus in hand. He ushers Martin through the middle aisle of a restaurant layout, borrowing a family townhouse’s living rooms. We near the spare tables’ neat place setting china, silverware, and wine glasses for two, by the window’s gaze, to the dark void before the rolled-down slatted wooden blinds.

Martin chooses one of the two remaining vacant tables. He steps around the table, for a seat to the wall. While I’m left grabbing the backrest, shifting the chair into the aisle to sit. The chef hands the menus and retreats. As we peruse the menu, the chef returns, crossing the dining hall with two bowls of red wine. He notes to mind our order, and retrieves toward the kitchen. As we’re chatting, I’m distracted by the distant chef’s white figure bustle behind the door niche darkness, wondering. ‘_Either a doorway to the  kitchen?_’ Until, the chef returns in hand two dinner plates, when raises a homely atmosphere, instead of elegant penguin waitering with a plateau, I despise snobbishness. The chef places the dishes in front of each of us, pivots, and leaves our table. As we enjoy our meal, the conversation is dislocated from my comfort. My mind craves to bite substance, brick, mortar, and concrete topics. Glade, casual as we arrived. We stand up from our table, head toward the chef. We settle the bill, and express our gratitude, we step out, heading to drop Martin at the South Station before I’m driving on toward the Château Du Bois.

 After greetings, on Saturday morning, Didier arrived from Gembloux’s Agricultural biotechnology university. Home for the weekend, to his grandparents. I find them in the little cozy room upstairs. Like his grandfather’s stamp collection on sheets of paper. While speaking over the table, Didier piled sheets of paper, and spread paper sheets, pressed an assortment of plant leaves, with sketches and titled Latin names. Beyond their figures profile against the tall window, in the light amid heavy and deep folds drapes pulled back. A Peugeot, a recent model out of my childhood, trundled up from the hedge of trees’ gateway. The rubber tire tracks along the gray crusher stone lane through the baroque garden, resonating as the car vanishes under the windowsill.

De-P’pa and Didier, scattered, after stepping out of the room, along the floorboard wide corridor, to the niche of the imperial marble staircase. Downstairs, excited voices arose, perpetuating through the hallways welcoming the newcomers. I stood on the stairs, when Andre, De-Papa’s cousin, with his wife Jane, were invited to the casual lounge, in the barrel turret room. But since I’m the odd one out. I followed in, lowered myself to the couch. Behind me the greeting persisted, the cousins stamp collectors, and branched in the medieval painting in Spain, befitting the family trees. While women were talking about extended living families. 

I nestled in the couch’s far upholstered backrest, to an armrest wrapping. Facing the timeless gray skies glimpsed through the ceiling-high drapes. over my right shoulder, figuring past De-P’pa’s symbiotic Capricorn, in a hefty talk past each other, with Andre’s symbiotic fierce Leo. Until a voice calls, Didier interrupts the old cousins, flashing a bottle of red wine from the cellar. With a flourish, Didier uncorked the bottle, though he knew the old folks weren’t drinkers. I joined in, Didier pours me a glass. While the cousins continue their disjointed tone-deaf conversation. over my left shoulder, De-M’ma and Jane were engaged in their peaceful dialogue. Didier returned with the bottle, offering to pour, but I’m hesitant to savor more of this potent vintage full-body wine, dizzying my head. Suspicious, my words slurring, as I’m drawing over my shoulders silent beaming eyes, discreetly laughing. I refrain, disappointing Didier, the teenager raises a party mood in the room. 

Andre and Jane bid farewell, creeping toward the doorway out the lounge. Out in the hallway, turning through the marble arches, talking moved along the extended hallway toward the rear portal. The old folks’ little crowd exit, descend the perron to the crusher stone driveway apron, voicing best wishes, wrap the Peugeot’s muzzle in discussion. Andre and Jane climbed inside the car, lowering the windows, and trundling away, waving goodbye. De-P’pa and M’ma turned around on the driveway apron, watching the Peugeot disappear around the castle’s corner. Didier and I, on the doorstep, returned leading inside.

The joy of the morning, as I’m pacing to meet the day. Nature’s greening pointillism painting, through the framed rear portal window panes, blurring an evanescent winter’s old brushwood. Resonate - Clang - At the strokes of a door swing, and - Clang - latch close behind. I’m descending the perron - Crunch, crunch, crunch. . . -  Pacing across the Baroque garden. To silence crossing into the woods. Yesterday’s pixelated brushwood canopies morph into unfurling foliage.  

By the day, foliage weaving the skies close, the bridle path leads me walking through muddy trails. I emerge on the cobblestone roadway, eager to close my course. Through long strides, I walk along the hedging tree foliage screening by the days tighter the Chateau Du Bois. As I reach the gateway - crunch, crunch, crunch. . . - the lane through the front garden shortens with each step to the abandoned bluestone sculptured and cumbrous oak entrance doors, I round the castles’ terracotta brick wind, by the turrets, to the rear, and the Polo, which beckons me indoors. 

After De-P’pa sets the breakfast table, with eggs, sandwiches and coffee, we leave De-M’ma in the Kitchen, to step into the car. I ride with De-P’pa, tires rolling the crusher stones, veer out onto rubber pattering along the farm road into the village. Pulling away from the stop sign, crawling the curb, the asphalt roadway, leads north across ‘[French] Four Arms.’ We pass straggling farmhouses and ride through villages, flashing Flemish road signs, until De-P’pa’s family town, ‘Lier.’

De-P’pa pulls alongside a train of parked cars. He backs up into the parking bay. Steps out coming around the front of the car, to the sidewalk, off angle to stand by an entrance door. As I’m fixing the set of windows up the squeezed brick facade, sharing the seventy’s architecture among the row of townhouses. Until an old woman appears through the door crack. In an exchange of warm gestures and expressions, De-P’pa greets her. ‘_I’m in the neighborhood. . . _’ Like I’ve heard before, he lured me to board the car. In a few telling words. ‘_There’s an exhibition in Amsterdam — I thought to drop by._’ 

De-P’pa throws a hailing glance over his shoulder, signaling me to follow. ‘_Come,_’ he tells me. Stepping out of the car to the sidewalk, I approached, the chatting pair in the shadows, to cross the doorstep, and closing the door behind. I trail through the entrance hall, De-P’pa and the detective’s widow, She moves to the right, resting her palm on the backrest of a lonesome lounge chair. Gesturing toward the coffee table, De-P’pa led me to the opposite end of the couch. Meanwhile, Mrs. Geyser lowered herself to the chair, chatting. as De-P’pa and I take our seats. 

I couldn’t help but reminisce about eavesdropping. When Lia’s father returned, after a long week in the jungle. Awe tickling my mind, through an investigation into the Jungle dwellers, of the wife shot by the husband —. 

The pieces of a puzzle painted vivid images in my mind: a stone-built rondavel nestled in the undergrowth of a jungle. In the interior's depth, the husband with a shotgun, aimed at his wife, walked the slasto floors out onto the terrace through open French doors. The Husband, suspicious claim, on a moonless night, shooting at a Leopard Man’ fleeing their bungalow. 

When the detective’s Plymouth parked in the driveway, facing the carport of the villa diagonally across Ibises Avenue in Goma. Igor and I, with Lia and Marc, left our parents. In the night's dead, carried parents seated around the dining table. Open windows and in the night's dead carried parents cracking laughter playing Canasta. Arising through upstairs’ windowless room, I’m awoken with a rising moon, rolling my eyes, following invasive shadows. 

In my quest for solace, I grapple with memories of Lia’s mother. In the absence of Mrs. Geyser’s once-charming ducky smiles. But I seized the opportunity during De-P’pa’s visit, reaching out to contact Lia. hoping to interject a few words amid the old folks’ conversation. But demanding patience, as the old woman floods De-P’pa with her lonesome heart.

While stirring warm memories of my dormant childhood, with Lia’s cheek, enticing Marc to a chaotic jumping on the bed. As Lia freezes at the head of the bed, clutching a pillow poised for launch. I glanced at Lia’s horrified, beaming sight. Over my shoulders, Mrs. Geyser silhouettes in the light of the flung open bedroom door, assessing Marc. Who yelped from jumping on the bed, Igor stubbing his little toe. Mrs. Geyser’s voice echoed in frustration, commanding. “[French] Will you stop? Get out of here — ‘_Go and play outside.’_”

Left unable to interject a word, I’m seized by a growing impatient, missing out a lifetime’s chance. Shying behind my ego, I push aside the irrelevance of my childhood’s sweetheart. The envy of elementary school boys, ash blond, petite beauty, bright Virgo symbiosis, tomboy spirit, I tell myself, ‘_Now or never! How will I otherwise ever contact Lia?_’ restless, I scoot nearer to the edge of my seat, desperate to chip in with a few words. I say. “[French] how is Lia?” Mrs. Geyser spares me a fleeting glimpse, the latent Aetheria’s volition whispering, as I struggle to breach a chainmail of the old folks’ incessant talk. My opportunity quickly slipped away, as both De-P’pa and Mrs. Geyser hinted at a farewell, rising off their seats. 

I’m left with a sense of improbability in reaching out to Lia. I’m mustering a more forceful approach, wedging in a few words, saying. “[French] Where can I contact Lia?” We raised to their feet, after Aetheria’s volition on Mrs. Geyser’s surprise chock, continued talking. I’m trailing the old folks converging toward the entrance door, where she grasps the door, De-P’pa greeting steps away. As in vain I past Mrs. Geyser, but she sighs’ me to pick my back pocket. I slew my hand right, my wallet flat right, then the left flap, and opening to my Seven-Star diary page. I handed Mrs Geyser a slotted ball-point pen. After scribbling a phone number, thanking her, I spin away from the closing door. Catching up, De-P’pa weaves through the bumpers to the Polo’s flanks. I pull the passenger door, meeting inside - Smack, smack - closing doors, De-P’pa firing the little engine, to drive away.