Creatrix

I'm thinking of you again today,

imagining you see the same rain,

hear the same hammering on the roof

as I do, look outside and see

the landscape in all the shades of green

like I do, that you breath like I do,

make coffee, read some cheap

romance novel or one of the historical

novels that I bought you, never

finishing the series about Egypt

which I regret everytime I remember

them; you wanted hardcovers and

I bought one paperback after the

hardbacks and never more, and

it was a betrayal, one of those

little betrayals that grew into the

great betrayal, and ever since you

died I have understood well what

I always found odd, Robert E.

Howard's suicide. I read yesterday

about re-prints of Valérian and Laureline comics,

remembered  how you liked them,
how I liked them and now can't think of

them separately from you. You gave me

the love of reading, love of speculative

and all I gave you was disappointments

and not enough of my time. I thought

there would be, but then there was none

and even then I did not understand

to spend every minute I could

beside your bed. It was a debt I owed,

like the fulfillment of your dreams

about what I would become that I owed

and I betrayed you, betrayed you so

many times, you who carried me

nine months in you womb and

thirty-two years, four months, one day

and seven hours afterwards.

14.06.2013