Tell me a story

Tell me a story

We pause naturally and both stare at the ground, the serendipitous coincidence of our exchange catching up to us. She picks up the conversation by stating what I already know to be true, but is so often and easily disregarded as obvious: “Even after 30 years, it hurts as much as it did the day they died.” As it has done so many times over the last two years, my heart breaks all over again. For her, for me. For what should be.

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The immortal daughter, the mortal daughter

The immortal daughter, the mortal daughter

During the five days of festivities, the city never sleeps, and millions of people throng the streets all night, decked in their newly-bought finery. Friends and family return from all over the world, and in many homes, the festival also occasions their own daughter’s homecoming, from a city or country thousands of miles away. The festival is about new unions, reunions, of the coming together and being one again, of dispersed loved ones. There is space for all in these festive five days—from the deeply religious to the merely fun-loving.

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Remembrance

Remembrance

It doesn’t get said out loud very often anymore. I think that others think that enough time has passed. That maybe they don’t want to remind me of you, my great love, my great loss. I think they think your little brother keeps me occupied and that I’m not missing you always. They don’t understand that both of those things happen simultaneously. I am deliriously in love with your brother and constantly remembering and missing you: “Henry, Henry, Henry.”

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