I have only a vague memory of this- the few sensations I could salvage from a piece of memory soaked in alcohol- it was my birthday after all.
We sat on my bed, fresh sheets- a deep red with specks of gold, laid out clean and straight a few hours before. On my body is silk. A sullen pink that could perhaps be mistaken for brown. My hair, freshly washed, so that when we sat very close to each other a few hours later- my back leaning against his chest, his chin on my head, he would be greeted with the scent of coconuts and flora.
Drunk ramblings. My mouth gushing with words that I don’t remember too well. I am overcome with emotion- a typical birthday…
Until I put my head down, covered by coconut and flora-scented hair. I am weeping.
It was the first and the last time, I wept about my father and was held with love. Topics were not changed, water was not poured.
Just two people, on a bed of fresh red, hugging and crying.
FreeRovingBovine 