Bade Papa

To watch someone.
To watch someone in pain. In screaming excruciating pain. So much pain that every muscle that moves exudes trauma which suffocates the air. The trauma of physical pain.

To forget.
To forget faces you knew all your life.
To be lost in memory. A black hole of a lived lifetime.
An inability to remember faces. A convenient smile of helplessness.

To eat.
Mashed food disguised in fluids. 
And throw up traces of memory that dry on a blistered tongue. 

Control. Over body. Over pain. None.
Only Morphined body. Morphined pain.

To not watch someone die.
Not watch a ceremony.
Not see a body one last time.
A body which once lived.

To find a performance.
To find yourself in it.
And not know whether you like it or not.

He forgot my face in three weeks. He lost his sense of coherence in three weeks. He was in unimaginable pain for three weeks. I wanted him to recognize me at least once. I wanted to have a moment with him. One last memory with him which would have been our secret. Kept for a lifetime. His and mine.

I feared he would die in front of my eyes. He didn't.