At night, with only the bedside lamp on, I would pretend to sleep and listened to Dads muffled crying in the semi-darkness, wishing that I could cry like him, that I could bring Stevan back from the dead by the strength of my tears. But they were regular tears carving the same slicing-hot trails down my cheeks, and in the end, I could not summon a distinct kind of grief for Stevan. Just the same grief that has gripped mankind for centuries, which time would inevitably ebb into a notch in ones skin or a small limp in the way one walks or a bottled memory that would only resurface some nights. And soon, youd struggle to remember how that person talked or how that person used to occupy a customized space in your life. And you dont want to forget, but you dont want to remember either, and there seemed to be no place where you could just exist.
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About V.J. Campilan, All My Lonely Islands
V.J. Campilan, All My Lonely Islands.