With Love and Two Teardrops

Dear Dad,

I miss you. I know I shouldn't weep or even have an appearance of mourning. I should be a man, step up and fill your shoes. These are pretty huge shoes you left. It would take a decade and two rolls of tissue paper for me to fit into them, with some effort.

I'm alive but I'm not living. Some days it's like I'm suffocating, like there's a gigantic polythene bag over my face and I can't breathe. I'm bodily present but emotionally detached. I bathe often on those days. Is platter a bowl of cold water on my face, then I cry and splatter more water to dilute the hot tears.

I die thirty-two hours a day and no one notices because they think death is the Horizontal line on the EKG machine, or the gunshot wound in your chest. They shroud their eyes with heavy shawls so they don't see the slouch of my shoulders from carrying my coffin full of depression all day. The ears do not hear the choking in my throat when I throw back my head to laugh (as I'm supposed to) at a joke.

Mama says you're sleeping. I'm tired. I want to sleep too, like you. So tomorrow I'll climb to the roof top and I'll let my self down. Then I'll rest in a crimson pool. But if living is worth the struggle, give me a sign. Hold me back before I take that leap.

With love and two tear drops,

Chuka

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