Thirteen years gone
But still in my heart,
New like tomorrow,
Sour like the hurt of a stolen kiss,
Dark, like shadows of loneliness.
I recall...
I remember...
I still feel... I know
Everyday the presence of your absence,
I endure the weight
Of the emptiness you left behind,
Thirteen years but still...
Even now still
I, in the silence of every breath
Pray, even if...
Just for a few minutes with you...
Again.
I never got the chance to say.
I never got the chance to say I love you.
~ Ezediuno Louis Odinakaose
Bryn Rose Gellar
March 1, 2002 - March 2, 2002
4 comments:
"Everyday the presence of your absence" -- nicely-phrased.
As Neruda said, the forgetting is so long. I think it's worse when there was no actuality but only potentiality for we write everything on that whiteboard, such are our hopeful minds.
It seems much worse than loss after experience is loss of what was only hoped for and never known.
I grieve with you.
What’s hard is the way it never stops – new causalities, new voids superimposed upon the graves of the old. Now for us we have Armando, a man in his mid-sixties, who lies in the military hospital in Veracruz awaiting his sixth amputation in the Veracruz military hospital. (They slice his legs shorter, each time cutting closer to the torso and each time defeated by gangrene.) He was once a proud man, a soldier who fought in the drug wars in the north, and now must have his diaper changed by his granddaughter. So it goes, the dreadfulness of things.
Kicks me in the balls every year when you post this, Chief.
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