#7

when I was younger, my father used to sit me down, next to him. I'd watch his mind unraveling. I'd listen to his thoughts, filling the background of my own desiring mind. he told me about loneliness. he told me about good company. about the burden of self knowledge. about courage, with gritting teeth he then spoke of defeat. he told me about corruption manifesting. about a love for country that cried for him everyday. about hope. about needing hope. about a drive for future. he was the man on the moon. he was the firm shoulder. he was my understanding staring back at me. he was the book of no ending. he was. he was.

he was.

father never once mentioned death. perhaps he too knew nothing about it, until he was embraced by it. by then it was too late, it was too late and our loving tune was interrupted.

my love was not strong enough to keep you, Baba. I wish you were here, Baba. living is getting harder each day, Baba. who do I talk to about it now, Baba?

I wish you were near, Baba.