It is a hot July night. I am sweaty, and the sheets are damp. Cool water doesn’t quench my thirst; it hardly stills the noise in my brain. You sit there next to me, Father, in spirit, and if I turn my head, I can see out the window, beyond which there is nothing except for a parking lot. Oh! How I wish the crowns of the trees would fall before my gaze. Do you know that one could yearn for a tree, Father?
I remember that evening, far away, a long time ago, that almost seems as if it never happened, yet it did. I was a child, an innocent little girl, I had bled for the first time. And you, you were the one sitting next to me, not Mother. You held my hands up in front of my eyes and kissed them many times, reassuring me that nothing was wrong, nothing was hurting me. Just nature, a nature called woman. You taught me to understand what that nature was, which thereafter I’ve often tried to ignore. You buried your hands in the warm hair of your child, once, Father, and then again. I took your head in my hands as I bade you goodnight, and its shape is still impressed on my palms, Father—hands can remember too, as can bodies. I pray for you.
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