August 2010
1 post
5 tags
papa.
Years of visiting the famous, musty house.
Hundreds of moments witnessing his forgetfulness of your mother’s name.
The day you knew he had died before he took his last breath.
But it isn’t until now,
As you hold him in your trembling hand,
That a silent tear transcends down your cheek.
You find it surprising that he smells of librarians
And not smoke
Under the torn, laminated...
