It monotone wordings simply reflects an uncomplicated thoughtful man.. Yet his narrative nailed me down this evening.
'Every man death's begin with the death of his father'. He tells me his father that never once scowled, never hit him. His father that would look with heartfelt admiration at every picture he drew; when he asked his opinion, his father would examine every scribbled sentence as if it were a masterpiece; His father would laugh uproariously at his most tasteless and insipid jokes. His father trust in him that he were brilliant and unique, came from a confidence in father own intellect. He tells me what he loved most was being close to his father, touching him, being at his side. He tells me that the father did leave them (forever). To other place, corner of the world unknown to them.*
I choose sitting in the hallway at the table for three, leaving favourite table at center stage and cozy couch empty. Too much this day. After all, I recovered my energy. Exercise always good. Endorphin beats the headache and exhausted lactazide muscles. A cup of camomile might ease tension. I choose sitting here on purpose. I want to feel a bit uncomfortable sense leaving people passing back and forth at my back... I recline as I recalled this morning, dragging my son out of the bed, scowled him to death. He was so afraid telling me his flaw exams day before. And I felt I did have right to put him as a suspect. I'm the judge, the truth. Flawless model of men.
I wish my mate's is true. I wish my death will be the beginning of the death of my son. I wish I have luxury my mate's father had. I am not going to dead yet, I want quality time to seed over my son. A seed that has been riped by my mate's father.
It's late already. it is always good to know that you are waited at home.
(My friend remind me of Father's day that is not commonly celebrated here.. what a nice coincidence)
*As narratted by Orhan pamuk, Other Colors, Essay and a Story, Knopf, Borzoi Books, 2007
