He died two days before my very first day of life. Instead of two eyes he had two blue bottomless lakes, each of them hiding its own tamed sun. He never had enough, as long as he had a tiny black hole inside of his heart, which made him feel eternal hunger. That’s why he was dying. He was almost 87 when I heard his tired whisper: «Ah, I am so hungry».
I wish I could hold his hand and kiss his old cheek, but I wasn’t born yet.
There was a fly on the wall. He knew.
He had seen so many things in this life, but he never found the most important thing. Something he had missed in his lifetime. He had his own house, but he never had a home. He wrote thousand of stories but he never wrote a book, his own book. He used to touch soft and beautiful skin. He used to observe falling stars in the night. But he never knew how to talk without words, and he never had his own constellation in the sky.
By that time his walls were covered with flies. They made him even more tired. He deeply breathed in and out — «Bye». «Bye» — I whispered, watching him leaving. His eyes became young for a moment- «Who’s there?» Me.
He died when he was almost 87.
Two days later, on the 24th of March, I was born into this restless world.