Sunt ani de cand imi canalizez energiile in ajun de Sarbatori pentru a crea noi amintiri. Imi imaginez ca asa voi reusi la un moment dat sa acopar cu ras de copil si clinchet de clopotei zgomotul infernal al taranii aruncate pe sicriul tau.
Sunt 22 de ani in seara asta de cand te-am vazut ultima data. De la usa te-ai intors pentru o secunda parca si te-ai uitat in urma cautandu-mi privirea. Si am cam stiut ca era ultima data... Am ramas acasa cu toate cumparaturile facute pentru Craciun, cu bradul impodobit si cu un imens gol in piept.
Am sters dara de sange lasata in urma ta pe chiuveta.
In urmatoarele 24 de ore copilul din mine a murit. L-am ingropat in bratele tale in cimitirul ala rece si trist. L-am mai simtit odata cand franghia ai nemernica te cobora in fundurile pamantului. Si am urlat ca un animal ranit.
Si asteptand vestea cruda am facut sarmale. Primele mele sarmale. Si friptura. Opera mea gastronomica a fost foarte apreciata la priveghi. Eu nu situ daca am gustat din ele.
Ce mult ti-ar placea azi, tata! Cat de mult ai butona la laptop si ce expert in smarphonuri ai fi! Si cum ai vizita toata lumea si savura betia de informatie!
Dar nu mai esti... A ramas doar senzatia asta de durere surda care ma intuneca in preajma Craciunului, vina ca nu apuc sa-ti vad mormantul decat rareori si privirea aia pe care o am inca vie memorie.
22 de ani.
***
It's warm and peaceful in the house, smells like apple pie and cinnamon. We sit by the decorated tree and the lights play on our faces. We're ready for the holiday.
I've been channelling my energies on the eve of the holidays for years to create new memories. I imagine that this is how I'll manage at some point to drown out the infernal noise of the dust being thrown on your coffin with a child's laughter and clanging bells.
It's 22 years tonight since I last saw you. From the doorway you turned for a second as if and looked back searching my gaze. And I kind of knew it was the last time... I stayed home with all the Christmas shopping, the decorated tree and a huge hole in my chest.
I wiped the blood stain off from the sink.
In the next 24 hours, my inner child died. I buried him in your arms in that cold, sad cemetery. I felt it once before when your bitch rope was lowering you to the ground. And I howled like a wounded animal.
And waiting for the cruel news I made sarnale. My first sarmale. And roast beef. My gastronomic work was much appreciated at the wake. I don't know if I've tasted it.
How you'd love it today, Dad! How much you'd be typing on your laptop and what an expert on smartphones you'd be! And how you'd visit every place and enjoy the information binge!
But you're no longer here... All that's left is this dull ache that darkens me around Christmas, the guilt that I rarely get to see your grave and that look I still have in my memory.
Twenty-two years.
