sometimes.

sometimes i’ll wake up, 

and for some reason expect to see him sitting at the table

or lazing in the sofa, mouth hanging open 

deafening snores escaping

or sneaking into the kitchen 

intent on stealing forbidden goods

or hear his voice from below

raspy at times

laughter rolling off the floor to ceiling windows.

sometimes i’ll close my eyes,

and open them.

and just for a second,

i’ll see him again

on those summer days, 

between the tall grass,

border collie at his feet 

or waving at me from the window on the second floor

me in the kitchen, waving back

sometimes i can’t tell if my memories 

are reality

or if i’ve made them up so many times 

convincing myself each time

but i still remember his wagging finger

the brush he held in his hand

the stories 

one of a tiger who ate a girl up in the rice fields

a tailored version of the boy who cried wolf 

made for me and my despicable lies  

i still remember staring at hundreds of bottles of wine

and discussing which one mama wanted

and i remember a cold winter night 

the flash of a toy

sent up next to the Eiffel tower 

while blood dripped from his thumb

sometimes,

i wish i could tell my papa how much i loved him

just one last time.