Saturday, October 29, 2005
I lay in bed with the boy today and told him about how birthdays always bring us back to the people we used to spend these days with. But I don't remember you on your birthday, I don't recall festivities or entertaining, I don't recall your showtime face. To me, you belong in the paradox of insignificant moments that are so strikingly significant. I remember you chasing me up the stairs, your half shaven beard against my cheek, your mismatched socks, your affinity for benson and hedges, your big belly hugs, your saying that my love for bread is most likely genetic, your love for clapton's wonderful tonight, your mosquito legs and your mafia chains; your voice calling me darling. Try as I might to surrender it all, my heart seems to be irreversibly tied to your living, and your leaving. "Stay with me," I sometimes wake up crying, but isn't it so that death waits for noone. And hard as it is to admit, part of my belief in Him rests on the fact that I cannot bear to give up the assurance that someday I will see you again. And on that day I will run, run into you, into your arms and smother you with all the words that I once didn't quite know how to say. And isn't it true that death covers all manner of sins; the dead can do no wrong, they cannot disappoint you like the living, they cannot change their love for you, they cannot speak the truths that you aren't quite ready to hear -- they cannot break your heart, again. But yet my heart breaks, every birthday, every anniversary, every day that celebrates you.
Ti amo, papa, ti amo così tanto che danneggia.
sherry @ 12:34:00 am
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