Broken Strings

My father died 11 years ago.
I could have written this in Albanian, but I won’t! It always seemed easier to write things that pain me the most in a different language; it was like removing the mask and doing what you want to do without having to be afraid of the consequences.
I would’ve gone with Chinese, Russian, French… or, I don’t know, but I’ll be going with English since, besides my mother’s language it’s the only one I know.
I could’ve been writing this in stanzas, lines that cut–
each time I inhale something that is, but can’t be seen there. But, I won’t.

It was a night like this one, I think: the same temperature, the same noiseless night, the same wind– touching without trying to touch the roof of my house, bats were hunting, owls were trying to seduce and enchant me into dreams that were never mine to begin … and that’s all.
I woke up the next day, my aunt standing right next to me with a look that didn’t seem as sad as much as it seemed lost.
She said something like this, if I recall correctly: “From this day on, I’ll probably be the person you hate the most” she said, and tears started falling from her cheeks. Immediately after seeing her like that, something in me started to stir.
She continued: “Your father was taken to the hospital last night, and…” I don’t remember this part.
I just know that I got up, got out, went into the next room to my mother and sisters…
I just remember that I got up, went outside to my cousins, neighbours, friends of my father…
I remember waking up eight or nine hours later in the same spot that I had woken up in the morning.
Footsteps could be still heard outside: shouts, cries, noise…
Behind the cries, behind the pain, behind the same chattering that happens in “events” like this, everything was the same.
The thing is, I don’t miss him as a father. I had the chance to know him like that and I had the chance to love him like that.
What really hurts in losing your father as a child is: you never get the chance to know him as a friend.
And from what I’ve heard spoken about him the last few years, I came to realise that he was one of the good ones.

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6 thoughts on “Broken Strings

  1. I wish I had the right words to say but I know he would have been so proud of who you have become Kushta.. he’s looking down upon you, helping and guiding you through life. Will make a dua for him tonight.
    *big hugs* ❤️❤️ ❤️

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