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One for each year now, for every year that you´ve been gone. One for every month, every day. One tear for every word, every turn, every time somebody speaks your name into the silence known as death. I will shed myself for every time I remember your raw cheek, your unshaven skin, pressing a kiss against mine. I was a tender child then, I´m a tender child now. For so long I felt unwanted, just by you. For so long I was the child who was not the child, the two year old who rejected you; is such a thing even possible? We were children and you thought it was fun to almost break our arms; is such a thing even imaginable? I wasn´t the thing you wanted, nor the thing you needed. Nor my was my older brother. So far away, so far apart, bound to you by nothing, no words unspoken. Only memories can remain.
And then we held hands and we went in to see you; the morgue was cold. My older brother´s hand was warm, but your shoulder was so cold. So cold. Stiff in your favourite suit, shrunken in your glory, your hair still astute. And that burning smile on your face. Of the many things that I have seen it was a truly beautiful one.

I cried for you, once. And the crumb, standing there in the morgue, with us; he cried all the quiet tears. He cried the anguish, the horror and the terror. He cried for the loss of a father. And we held him in our arms, we held his tender light. My younger brother is your son and he is a thousand times better than you ever were; be proud of him.
I remember you now, the way you´d wanted to be remembered. I remember your beloved boat, the one your father had owned. How the waves would brace and slam us, just because you liked the open ocean and the boat was far too small to handle it. The tumbling and shaking and then the surrender. Somewhere out there, a haven of voices, three children and our favourite ice-cream cones. We´d all share a bottle of lemonade and I´d hate you for taking the first sip because I imagined you spitting into it. I was always disgusted by you, by your overpowering cologne and angry clumsiness. You were not my father.
You were not my father, but I see you clearly now. You were not mine, you were never mine; but now I know your name, now I know what you were. You loved my mother until the end; my mother, she who loves no one. Keeping your end of the bargain, throwing in the towel before the tables turned, spending most of your grown life teaching an ungrateful little monster the greatest rhetorics she´d ever know. You were fabulous and terrifying, and I never hated you for all that I tried; but I might have loved you a little. Scary, hollow, fearing for yourself and your own shortcomings. You were an incurable alcoholic, your god but a bottle. Oh, you, beautiful you. I miss your stupid jokes, witty insights and the way you understood me. You made me strong, you helped me so much; though you never knew. I miss you.

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