You picked me and made me spin.
Then you put me on your shoulders and made me fly. Fly over your stories when I wake up and sleep on the soft pillows thinking about going out to discover the world with you. Search for the sparkling fairies and the galloping unicorns with their magical horns
It was a small world, contained in the palm of our hands and drawn on the sheets of our small room. A world in which we would have a little more money, food in our bellies and ease when it came to facing the night.
A world that didn't need smiles, laughter or love. I always had a lot of that.
A world that didn’t need to be bigger to make me fuller.
You vomited in the sink.
I know it's been hard for you. Waking up in the morning without really knowing where you are. Frantically searching for a familiar face from a long past time without knowing that they are the ghosts of the present. Ghosts that followed your teetering memory. Slippering away from our hands. So delicate and so precious at the same time.
"A butterfly landed on my skin.
A little walk through the wonders.
Isn't it wonderful?
Don’t you think so dad?"
“Why do you sing?”
“Because I am happy, little girl”.
You push the stroller, smiling happily at the thought of witnessing your toddler, me, swimming through the sea. The seagulls are squawking as they fly across the sky. The white horses with their beautiful water suits go to rest on the shore of the beach. You grab me by the waist and lift me up so I can touch its mane without submerging me.
“Too small” you grin at me, “but not enough to enjoy” you say while you accompany me to discover the beach, protecting me like my guardian angel that you were.
Sunny days of playing in the sea. Sunny days of a childhood by the shore.
“Why does it feel like a fout?”
“Maybe you believe it to be.”
“Am I one?”
“Not even for a second.”
Your hands, tired from work, pick up mine with love. Even if certain memories have flown away like goldfinches freed from their nest, you still maintain your beautiful glow, a little mischievous, a little frank and always sincere. Not even your body can stop you from expressing your soul.
You look at me tenderly, telling me how beautiful my hands are, how soft and fragrant. That yours are wrinkled like raisins in the sun.
To which I answer:
“Those hands that you seem to dislike so much are not to be hated. As they are the hands of a worker of nature. A lurker of wonders from the unknown. Of a tamer of wild beasts may them be human or animal.
They are the ones that picked me up every time I fell. They gathered the golden wheat that fed us. They held me when I collapsed after losing the one I believed was the love of my life. Hands that put my tiara on me the day you walked me to the altar. Hands that held your newborn granddaughter. Hands that even now comfort me.
It is time using them for good that has wrinkled them. They are marks of love. Like raisins sweetening the lives of the ones you love.
Love them as I do, please.”
“The new spider man movie is out. Oh dad, I want to see it. Please dad”.
Dark circles adorn your eyes, accentuating a warm bluish look.
“The princess has talked. Therefore the knight should obey. At night, when the stars wake from their sleep, come to meet me at the open field. I’ll be waiting for you.”
And just like you promised. At midnight I got out to meet you. You were waiting for me on the worn-out motorcycle and together we went to the screening. We didn't have money thus we camped on the outskirts listening to the voices and imitating what the faces that said them might be like.
A blissful time that I treasure as a gem.
“Is he insane?”
The doctor asked for the fifteenth time after reviewing your medical history. I am left speechless by the atrocious insinuation. My mind doesn't know whether to yell at her for her incompetence or whether to grab your wheelchair and leave.
Pitifully, I chose to stay gripping my hands tightly, turning my knuckles white with frustration. She's the only one who knows anything about your degenerative disease. No alternative. Not if we want you to spend your last weeks in peace and not in constant suffering.
"No". I mutter under my breath while I hold her gaze defiantly. “He is not. As you should be well aware, this disease produces delusions and is not something they can control.”
“Mmm,” he responded, turning the pages from one side to the other. "Then I'll send you a complete hormone analysis and a brain scan," she said while avoiding my gaze.
“Doctor, as you see, we already have-”
“Look ma'am, time is running out. He is not the only one who needs help. Get out.”
Enraged I got up and took you away from that doctor and that medical system that could least care about those in the elderly.
Too old to care, too young to let go.
The fever is taking over me, clouding my eyes and numbing my senses. I'm now 16 years old and I'm still using the same bed from when I was 6. My feet hang at the end of the sheet, frozen, numb. We are in a precarious situation, without food, without medicine. Yet the doctors try with all their might to keep me alive without providing any financial aid. As they say:
Too promising to let go, too mature to care.
You look devastated with your bags under your eyes from staying up late to keep me alive. Day after day you bring me towels soaked with hot water, kiss my forehead and collect my hair while I empty myself. You don't mind not eating if it means I can give myself a chance to breathe a little bit more.
“You are my everything.
Welcome to the world my little one. I am your dad. And I can not be more grateful for it. May the sun always shine over you as angels sing your achievements.”
You were crying. Full of happiness to know me. To greet me. To know that this miracle was yours to protect.
You did it dad.
They told me to open the souls so the soul can depart. And I think you took that opportunity to hold my hand tightly for the last time while hearing the goldfinches.
“Love you dad”
My hand is still holding you near me as you did when I first came into being.
0 breaths in
0 breaths out