My shade of black

26 years ago, on a Sunday morning, just after a school trip to Munich someone called home to say you had passes away. I don’t remember much of that morning but I know I was listening to a Udo Jürgens‘ LP I offered to my mum (and as if we were listening to a bad omen, I think no one ever listened to it again) and I also remember how tight I hugged my sister.
You had moved away since over a year, and we didn’t physically miss you. Your daily presence had already left. But your death among other things deprived us of the possibility of talking to you at least one more time, and as far as I am concerned of asking you all the questions that I needed to have an answer for.
Did you love me? Why did you never call me back? Did you ever regret your choice? Did you miss us, me? What did I do wrong?
What I would really love, despite all these years is to be able to feel your hand holding my neck as you used to when we were walking together. I’d love to listen to your voice and talk to you again….Funny how I’m sure I could recognise your voice among a thousand others but I can’t remember its sound …
Time goes by, and I did forget a lot about you, too much.
When I think of you now, I can still see you dressed to go hunting, with the big leather boots I loved to wear as a child, your waistcoat with cartridge holders, and Brick our setter by your side. Probably because your “country self” was the happiest one.
Sis says you wouldn’t have liked to get older. She’s probably right, but I would love to have you by my side growing older, I would really, really love you to teach my children the so many things you knew about this world.

I still remember a dream I had many eons ago: after hundreds of nightmares you “came and hugged me” and it was so beautiful and so real. After that night my bad dreams about you have gone… nevertheless, somehow, I’m sort of sorry about it because it was a goodbye: you erased my anger with a hug and my mind erased you from my dreams, and I have only photos and fading memories of you now….



I miss you dad, and the 9th of April will always have a shade of black.


5 thoughts on “My shade of black

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