I dream again.
You’re not there. I know all the faces that I see. Dad comes, holding kitty’s hand. There’s a big black dog following them. It barks. I cry: “Just hurry dad!” and he’s still slow. The door opens, kitty is in and then daddy. Now we’re all in the car. I breathe. We’re safe but still the alley is too quiet and scary.
It has become a routine. When you are not there dad is always in sight. You’re not to take his place but it seems to me that he does try to do so.
We always want to talk but the only conversation is between the locked pairs of arms with the dazzling voice of panting and moaning. I am tired of carrying this candle wherever I go and you don’t stretch your hand to take it. I am about to drop the candle and kill the light; we have to stop wounding ourselves.
Talk to me…
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