Papa.

[jenarael]

If I try [not very hard -- eyes open; can't close them] I still remember how his face felt all those years I was growing up, unshaven and softly cool and framed in a white coat, as I hugged him when he came home from the hospital, smelling like sickness and dying even though he was healthy.

I didn't get to say goodbye. He smelled like soap and chocolate milkshakes, not death, the last time I saw him alive.

I don't even care about this stupid PhD/MD decision. I just want to go to a house that doesn't exist anymore, back in Italy, and fall asleep and have my father wake me up because it's summer vacation and I'm eight years old and my nonna is making polenta for breakfast.

I hope you don't think I'm crazy, or neglectful and a bad friend because I haven't been posting or commenting. I just don't know where I am lately.