I remember that day, the cutting light of a winter morning. I remember the silence, the candel burning close to the bed all the night long. I remember the tears, the sobs of his son: had he forgot that boys don't cry?
I remember the slow pace behind him, the circumstancial words of the people, the signatures on the book. I remember the flags of a lost war, the eyes of the exiles come for the one who saved them. I remember his wife, so distant from all of that, in the proper dress for a widow; in the end she has been a widow for so many years before.
I remember the flowers, the red of the carnations not allowed inside because of the symbolism and how ugly was the contrast with the wood. And I remember he was above that, or in between the lines as always.
Sometimes I wonder how it would had be with him still here. I grew up, an orphan among the others, but somethimes I'm still convinced that he only had the answers, he only could point me the Way as so many times he did. My teacher, my father, my master, my conscience, my strenght.
He always told me that boys don't cry. I didn't cry that day. Not for him, never for him not to be at my side. Now I'm not a little child anymore and also if sometimes I'm tempted, after twenty years still I don't cry
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
reminds me of a hero and teacher of mine who passed away. he took his own life to join his wife, who died a few weeks earlier. he taught me the exact opposite lesson. two weeks before he died, he looked me in the eyes and told me to listen: "i have never been good at that, showing, expressing my feelings. you have to learn to do that." i remember thinking when he told me that, it was already to late.
Post a Comment