It seems again, like I did not take the chance when you really
handed it to me. I didn´t learn, and again, my reply will come
out as what could have been a personal epitaph.
I suppose I can take that though. Imagining that it is the
thought that counts suits me. It has to, because I have as you
no doubt always knew never been much for the verbal
confession. And when I had my moments in the sun you weren´t
able to be there and see them.
Oh I wish that you would have. That you wouldn´t always have
had to picture them after hearing the recited recollections.
That more of my life was more than stories told to you
afterwards. More than bleak snapshots and copies of the
starlight.
But I think you knew, as I did. Because it was on my lips
every time you asked. It was in my hands, and in my eyes.
And no words or lack of them can ever change that.

And that is more than enough time spent on what mainly leads
my mind to attempts to gain the last absolution. Like mother.
That part was a lot of weight on her, and I think it still is.
She did most of the talking too, and she does it even as I
write this. That´s probably her way.
Yes, and now, my parents have each other, and my brother
has his family, and they talk and they cry.
Me, I´m still not talking, but I have this.
My long-lost diary. And this allows me to cry.

And I suppose I have you, in some way, through the veil that
fell over you. If my brother somehow has your husband in a
way that I could never really completely take part of, then
I suppose I have you.
But when I look, all I see is myself. You are on the other side
of the mirror now, and when I place my palms on the glass I
can only guess that you do so as well. Or maybe the mirror is
one-way, in which case this isn´t an epitaph, and words and
thoughts are the same thing.

Or maybe there is no mirror, simply because there is no other
side to which it would be a barrier. I will probably find that
out for myself one day.
Until I do, though, you have your very own room in my palace
of memories. Your very own room, with your very own
corridor leading up to it. It is a corridor through which I will
always sneak, as I sneaked up the stairs to surprise you when
I came to say goodnight.
And the door is closed now, until you choose to open it, for the
key I once had is now in your possession.

As
you aren´t here anymore.
You aren´t here to hold my hand and walk me home.
You aren´t here to wave to me as I walk out the door.
You aren´t here to show me the streetlights change from pink,
to green and to white.
And me,
I´m a big boy now.

But
you have a vase in your room now, that weren´t there before,
and the tulips in it will always be purple. I promise you that.

That, and another thing: every night when I finally give in to
sleep, the wall next to your bed will vibrate with a sound that
isn´t really possible to pick up anywhere else in the room.
Four knocks, a breath of silence, and anther knock.

Four squeezes
of a hand
a breath of silence
and another squeeze

And outside...
Outside, it is a gloomy day.
Outside, the streetlights change.
They go from pink, to green, and to white.
Outside,
the world rolls on.


To thee,
who hath borne me on thy back
a thousand times.

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