Right Here
By Richard Watson
19 July 2008
He wasn't my Dad; in fact he wasn't a blood relative at all.
Yet he treated me like a son and I loved him as a Father.
"Life goes on". "Things stay the same" they all said
And some things don't change at all
Its still the same fat guy wearing too much deodorant sitting in front of me on the bus every morning, it's the same half a dozen songs on rotation on the radio, still the same sun, moon, sky and air. They have all stayed the same, but other things?
Slices of Pata Negra, a well selected bottle of Rioja, a warm sweaty cheese these flavours used to dance and sing around my mouth and I would quaff and gorge on them with glee
But now? Now they are heavy and they punch & scratch at my tongue, I bleed and scar.
Those things will never be the same.
When we lose someone we develop a hole inside of us a gaping gorge that cannot be filled. I have two of these now, one for Mazza and one for Vicente.
We all convince ourselves that the pain we feel will subside, or reduce but the truth is it doesn't. It's the same pain and it is always there only the grip it once consumed us with loosens. The pain often returns with the line in a song, a paragraph in a book or stranger on the street. I believe there is a reason these unrelated flashes of remembrance hit us by surprise. It's them, wrapping us up in their arms with a kiss on the forehead and brushing away our tears then with a hand on our hearts they whisper
"Its OK, I'm right here. I.... AM.... RIGHT.... HERE!"
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