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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.