And now it has been some time that we haven't spoken, my son. But you know how often I speak to you in my mind?
Many times coming home I imagine you appearing at the front door, having visited, and the times I drive by your old house, your nest of happiness, father of two wonderful boys…I see you on the power mower smiling as drive by…and waving…the days of hope…but all has vanished…al that you ever had and worked so hard for …has completely vanished.
For so many years, with the wind in my face, between the white snow falls of the winter, or in the warmth of sun rays, or the blooming of spring…I had called your name to come to me.
As I rewind the scenes of my life, I think of finding your thoughts between so many old pictures now old and used but neatly folded in albums.
Who knows if you up there also have vivid memories of our times we spent together…maybe you also yearn to hear my voice…maybe you would wish me to say 'my son I will always be there for you' as you wrote to me that I had always been…before you closed your eyes.
Maybe you would want that I'd pick you up and, holding you in my arms, I would talk to you about your grieving mother.
Would you ever have imagined that fateful day in May that we would no longer be next to each other?
That between my alternating waves of fortune and misfortune, that day, something/someone would rip your hand from mine. A day of a mocking fatality being against us all…
…and for all time left to come…living a life as a condemned man…watching a dark fog appear on the face of your mother…causing torment and insecurities …extinguishing my joy of life as a faltering candle light deprived of oxygen.
And it would be then that I'd feel unexplainable guilt of having negated you some happiness I could have given.