Dijiste, "Mi'ja, no llora."
I walked past your new home today, the home where you rot like meat in a hardwood box in the soil. I didn't come in, into the safety of your stone walls, over your tar threshold. Your friends and their granite furniture don't interest me.
There is an empty spot, my dear dead Papa, for my mama, right next to you. One day, when she is decomposing alongside you, I will come and pay a visit. I might even bring a pretty floral centerpiece for your table. But until then, you'll be alright in the soil, the same soil where I buried your vodka, the same soil where the cigarettes you smoked are now in a landfill somewhere.
I passed by your new home, and didn't go in, but I glanced over to your little corner, with my Spanish eyes, the Spanish eyes you gave me, the Spanish eyes that I am forced to view the world with, the same way you did, in your blurry sort of way. You died young and on a string, and I probably will too. It seems like I'll inherit it all. It's a package deal, isn't it? Oh, there's no point in asking. You would tell me if you could, but you can't. Worm shit doesn't speak, as much as it might try.
I've been reading your books, Papa. I'm probably looking for you in the pages, just like you looked for God in a Catholic Church. But you never did, and I'll never find you in the lower left hand corner of page 129 of Cat's Cradle, or on the back of the cover page of Tortilla Flat, or somewhere in between the lines of the bar code of your copy of A Farewell to Arms, and I know it-just like you knew you'd never find God dripping like wine from the robes of Father Tom or in the flat, tasteless bread we recieved at communion.
You were selfish and mad and beautiful. I guess I've got it all but that last part. I can't be like you all of the time.
There is an empty spot, my dear dead Papa, for my mama, right next to you. One day, when she is decomposing alongside you, I will come and pay a visit. I might even bring a pretty floral centerpiece for your table. But until then, you'll be alright in the soil, the same soil where I buried your vodka, the same soil where the cigarettes you smoked are now in a landfill somewhere.
I passed by your new home, and didn't go in, but I glanced over to your little corner, with my Spanish eyes, the Spanish eyes you gave me, the Spanish eyes that I am forced to view the world with, the same way you did, in your blurry sort of way. You died young and on a string, and I probably will too. It seems like I'll inherit it all. It's a package deal, isn't it? Oh, there's no point in asking. You would tell me if you could, but you can't. Worm shit doesn't speak, as much as it might try.
I've been reading your books, Papa. I'm probably looking for you in the pages, just like you looked for God in a Catholic Church. But you never did, and I'll never find you in the lower left hand corner of page 129 of Cat's Cradle, or on the back of the cover page of Tortilla Flat, or somewhere in between the lines of the bar code of your copy of A Farewell to Arms, and I know it-just like you knew you'd never find God dripping like wine from the robes of Father Tom or in the flat, tasteless bread we recieved at communion.
You were selfish and mad and beautiful. I guess I've got it all but that last part. I can't be like you all of the time.