Uncle Americo owned a little shop. It was not one of horrors, but of sweet treats. Mother thought I liked to visit him, since he allowed me to grab anything I wanted. He would say, “You eat some, and the rest you put in your pockets, for later.” In truth, it was because I knew I would never come closer to stepping foot in a castle, owned by a kindhearted king. That he loved me as much as I loved him, was clear. We were both similar, in the way we chose to conduct ourselves. Quiet, slightly rigid, hungry for good conversations, quick to smile, eager to look another in the eye to better reach their soul.
Standing next to him, I felt I finally belonged somewhere. I could say very little, silenced by the impression his beautifully decorated home made on me, which would still never come close to matching his own beauty.
Today, my gentle Americo passed away. The same day Daniel took his own life, years ago.
Sister will be returning soon. I have not spoken to her in weeks. It is the children who communicate this to me. They frequently ask if their mother and I will ever love each other, the way we are supposed to. I tell them not to ask about things they already know. Their eyes cut into my own. They turn to hold each other, walking away from me, as if I were an enemy.
Mother Mary, so pure and true, help me. Anyone at all, help me. Nothing provides me with comfort. My life is sick, and if there is a cure, let it reach me. The light seems a taunt, not a promise. No one can see what deeply affects me. I have carried the suffering with competence. It isn’t difficult to shove it through the chest, and fasten it securely, so that it doesn’t slip out.