Te uita cum ninge decembre... / Just look how it snows in December...

A inceput luna aceea blestemata, in care te simt mai aproape decat in tot anul. A inceput luna in care aniversam trist Craciunul ratat, in care plangem mai mult decat in restul anului, in care se aduna regretele gramada si intrebarile curg in fiecare zi. Si tu nu mai esti aici sa mai raspunzi niciunei intrebari.

E cea mai fericita luna decembrie din viata mea, luna pe care mi-as fi dorit mai mult ca niciodata sa o traiesti

si tu. Si mi-as dori sa nu-mi mai fie dor si frica, si mi-as dori sa mai citesti din Minulescu si sa-ti urasc tigarile innodate din bucatarie. Si mi-as dori sa nu mai plang acum, dupa jumatate de viata fara tine.

Ce-ai spune tu acum? Ai plange cum plang si eu, de fericire si de grija, si m-ai alinta cum numai tu o

Sursa foto

faceai, si te-ai bucura fara sa-ti fie teama si rusine ca te va judeca cineva ca esti mai putin barbat ca plangi ca o femeie la fiecare emotie. Pentru ca asa esti tu, asa ai ramas in amintirile mele dragi, asa te-am cunoscut si te-am iubit, asa ai plecat, cu un zambet pe buze si cu ochii in lacrimi.

Cred ca sunt fericita, dar mi-e frica sa recunosc. Cred ca ai ceva de-a face cu asta, pentru ca de curand am inceput sa cred in ingeri. Cred ca te-ai zbatut sa ajung aici, cred ca ma vezi si mi-ai trimis ce am bun in viata, incercand sa estompezi si raul de care am avut parte.

Mi-as dori sa ne pregatim sa te serbam de Mos Nicolae, cu toate ca noi nu eram asa festivi. Mi-as dori sa fii ceva mai batran decat mi te aduc eu aminte, dar cu bagajul plin de glume si bancuri, la fel de emotiv si sincer, la fel de adevarat. Mi-as dori sa vin acasa sa te gasesc jumate sub masina, sau la cafeaua de dupa-amiaza, sau ascultand Edith Piaf sau contrand-o pe mama care zicea ca aia nu e artista, ci doar o femeie usoara.

Mi-e dor de tine si anul asta nu am nici energie si nici nu gasesc vreo motivatie suficient de puternica sa ma prefac ca nu a inceput decembrie.

***

That damned month has begun, where I feel closer to you than I have all year. The month has begun where we sadly celebrate the missed Christmas, where we cry more than the rest of the year, where regrets pile up and questions flow every day. And you're not here to answer any more questions.

It's the happiest December of my life, the month I wish more than ever you could have lived too. And I wish I didn't miss you and I wish I wasn't afraid, and I wish I could still read Minulescu and hate your knotted cigarettes in the kitchen. And I wish I wouldn't cry now, after half my life without you.

What would you say now? You'd weep as I weep, with happiness and care, and praise me as only you would and you would rejoice without fear and shame that someone would judge you less of a man for crying like a woman at every emotion. Because that's who you are, that's how you stayed in my fond memories, that's how I knew and loved you, that's how you left, with a smile on your lips and eyes in tears.

I think I'm happy, but I'm afraid to admit it. I think you have something to do with it, because I've recently started believing in angels. I think you struggled to get here, I think you see me and sent me the best I have in life, trying to blur out the bad I've had.

I wish we were getting ready to celebrate you for Saint Nicholas, though you weren't so festive. I wish you were a little older than I remember you, but with baggage full of jokes and pranks, just as emotional and sincere, just as true. I wish I could come home to find you half under the car, or at afternoon coffee, or listening to Edith Piaf, or contending with my mother who said she wasn't an artist, just a little bimbo.

I miss you and this year I have neither the energy nor can I find any motivation strong enough to pretend December hasn't started.