MARCH 1, 2007 / DELROV HOUSEHOLD

Being a Leap Day kid was a less than lucky thing to begin with, and coupled with Asher's condition (his current state of health: two broken fingers from when a basketball hit him in physical education; hands now looked deformed whenever he wore gloves), Vasily thought he deserved a little extra treat for his birthday.

It was his idea to go to the carnival, despite it being a breeding ground for injury. Vasily was confident, because as long as he kept an eye on his son, nothing bad could happen.

Everywhere Asher wandered that day - each attraction a miniature sun, pulling him into its irresistible orbit - Vasily followed like Asher's personal moon. Vasily let his son roam wherever he wanted, granted it was safe. First, he hit the food stalls. One thing he inherited from Ekaterina; a love for untried food.

Of course, who could forget the daunting possibility that he could have also inherited something else from her?

Neither Ekaterina or Vasily had wanted to have their genes tested, to find out from whom Asher got imperfecta. She had explained the day after the test was offered, "Some things should be known, for education's sake. And some things should not be; for happiness' sake."

Vasily was already feeling unhappy enough without her.

Asher was the only priority in his life. His job was just a means of putting food on the table, compared to how much Ekaterina loved and lived for her career. She was enthralled with prosthetics. Her job was something she'd willingly do, even with no pay.

With remnants of sticky purple candy floss on his cheeks, Asher ran to and played the stall games. There were two stiff knobs wrapped in plaster where his right index and middle fingers should have been; he wasn't very good at ring toss that day - or any other game which required the use of his primary hand.

Vasily played one round of the basketball-shooting game, scored enough baskets for a reward, and let Asher pick the prize.

"That one," Asher pointed to a pack of glow-in-the-dark paints. The stall owner unhooked it, and handed it to the eleven-year-old. They ate a classic carnival dinner of chebureki - a deep-fried turnover - boiled corn on a stick, and doughnuts.

Afterwards, Vasily took Asher along to the circus performance. It was advertised as the highlight of the carnival, and the closer the pair got to the striped tent, the stronger the ripples of elation were. The crowd was thriving with anticipation, contagious and inescapable.

That night would reign as Asher's 'most fun' for a year, because he got to join in with the act. Spotlights had searched for volunteers, purposefully dipping and skimming over screaming individuals that were almost frothing at the mouth to participate - just to build suspense.

And the chosen one: sitting in a ring of light, eating his corn on a stick and still watching the show like he didn't even notice the attention on him. Asher was consumed with joy; he got to ride an elephant! In a moment of pure happiness, watching the audience down below like he was a god - he didn't get many of those since Ekaterina's passing - he didn't notice Vasily concerned gaze.

His father was watching carefully for the moment when his son got hurt; for when the process of healing and hurting would have to begin again. Vasily was worried that Asher would be condemned to live like that for the rest of his life.

The hole in Asher's heart that Ekaterina left behind was cavernous the day after she passed, seizing as her brain disconnected from the rest of her body, in a hospital bed that had way too thin of a mattress. Vasily had stopped Asher from visiting a few days prior to her deterioration, to preserve Ekaterina in his memory the way she deserved to be remembered.

And the way Asher remembered Ekaterina was so reverent that losing her ripped a hole in him so big that he felt hollow inside. Over two years, he filled that vacancy with (safe) adventures with his friends, watching movies and flinging pebbles into lakes. He used mud cakes and bike races to sew himself back together, covering his heart to protect it from more pain. Asher drowned the hole in his heart with salt water, from the icy Arctic beach where both his father and his school mates made summer memories with him.

Each passing day, each new broken bone, perfect test, achievement, each new friend was a stitch that knitted the emptiness in him a little bit smaller. Asher started to experiment with new hobbies; painting (wasn't good at it), reading (liked it, sort of), music (only to listen to). The fleeting content he gained from each of these new experiences were another round of stitches mending his torn heart.

But the hole was still there, still gnawing away at his bones like a rabid dog, still pumping out grey sludge into his bloodstream under all the happy memories. And there were still times when Vasily's cooking didn't compare to his mother's, which always needed a touch more garlic. There were still days when he thought he heard her voice calling above his blaring music, only find that no-one had spoken.

There were still nights when he cried about how his mother died, having hours alone in a hospital room to think about when it would come, how it might feel and who she would leave behind. She was chained to her death bed by IV lines and monitor machines, feeling every breath come weaker. No-one should be tortured with their imminent death, Asher decided.

But the changing of the seasons rolled on, and the tides on the beach that was too cold for swimming went up and down, until it was warm enough to swim again, and little by little, with each pretty girl he saw, every science test that he destroyed - in the good way - the days his friends wasted on violent video games and saturated potato chips, the memory of his mother wasn't a stinging blow any more.

Rather, it was a dull ache that Asher could never identify the location of.

Some days, he knew he should feel sad, but could only remember what it felt like to hurt, instead of feeling the pain. Other days, he felt that he shouldn't be as happy as he was, because his mother had died, and it was sort of a slap in her face to enjoy life without her. Most days, Asher recalled how much Mama had hoped for a bright future for him, told him to chase it, grab it, and never let it go. He knew Ekaterina Delrov would be as proud of him as the sky was of its stars.

Ekaterina was the type of person who expected no grief over her passing, because she sorely underestimated how loved she was. But like mother, like son; Asher sorely underestimated how much his mother would have given to see him happy.

Probably, even her own life.

During one of those restless summer nights where sleep ran away from those that would chase it, Asher concluded that Ekaterina Delrov was the best mother in the world. Because, she had raised him so well, her love could still be felt like a hug.

Even if she was gone.