stuff
today's my father's birthday. He would have been 58 years old.
I always have to pause and think about it. In my head he is the age he was when he died, 44. A magical age frozen in time. just a reference. west o' the sun, east o' the moon. nothing real at all.
Sometimes I meet men who are 44 and I think with a start of surprise, that's how old my father was. And I scan these men with my grown up eyes to try and get a better understanding of 44, as though the age itself, the way they carry that age, might trigger something or hold a hint of my dad. Usually it holds only a wistfulness, loops of time slipping through my fingers like seafoam, delicate and gone.
I don't have his grave to visit here, but when I've got my mind organised I shall clean the house and make a small altar for him in some corner. Nthing fancy. Just a framed photograph, a lit candle, a red flower. And at attempt to treat myself nicely today too, to celebrate his birthday with something other than sadness.
Djordje Gotua
22.03.1946-17.10.1989
I always have to pause and think about it. In my head he is the age he was when he died, 44. A magical age frozen in time. just a reference. west o' the sun, east o' the moon. nothing real at all.
Sometimes I meet men who are 44 and I think with a start of surprise, that's how old my father was. And I scan these men with my grown up eyes to try and get a better understanding of 44, as though the age itself, the way they carry that age, might trigger something or hold a hint of my dad. Usually it holds only a wistfulness, loops of time slipping through my fingers like seafoam, delicate and gone.
I don't have his grave to visit here, but when I've got my mind organised I shall clean the house and make a small altar for him in some corner. Nthing fancy. Just a framed photograph, a lit candle, a red flower. And at attempt to treat myself nicely today too, to celebrate his birthday with something other than sadness.
Djordje Gotua
22.03.1946-17.10.1989