#182

I—

I am sad to think that it would be

my father who would be the first one

to knock on my door as he grew concerned,

as I had neither gone down for dinner

nor woken up early

as I always do;

to find silence where my music

usually filled my lively room,

as it always did—

but no more;

to continue knocking

until, by midday,

he finally pried the door open;

to find a body kept afloat—

I—

He will find his son floating in midair,

eyes closed, as if meditating

through all eternity.

The son will find the answer

to the most basic and trivial question,

to the most arduous and elusive riddle

that the living have spent their lives seeking.

He will—

gently lift his son's feet

to—

catch him as he used to

when he was still

a wee bit little.

He will be most careful—

though his hands are shaking,

his sobs growing louder,

his eyes wide with—

He will appear the most unfatherly

to his son.

He will look like a mess, but—

he'll catch his son back

with dignity,

with strength,

with that firm expression

he'd worn beneath a mask

for so long

he'd forgotten it was one.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way."

He will think through it all—

And then, in the blink of an eye,

there is a grave.

A simple epitaph,

etched in stone,

that could never fully define

the way he remembers his son.

There may be no rain that day,

but in his mind,

a storm will pass

gently and endlessly.

He stands by his son's—

my grave.

His eyes, which once sparked with light,

have twice lost their shimmer.

"Where did I go wrong?"

"What was he thinking?"

"I gave everything for him."

"I—"

Beneath the soil,

I am buried.

I am my father's own—