I wonder if papa ever cried.
Sometimes when papa is in the bathroom, I wonder if he let his tears fall like I do as he suppress the voices of pain so that mama won’t have to worry about him too.
Sometimes when papa is in the bedroom, I wonder if he is writing his worries on paper like I do as he translates the out pour of distress through his left hand.
Sometimes when papa is away, I wonder if he has friends to talk about his pain like I do as the words and tears both mix and his voice is muffled but his friends would listen nevertheless.
Sometimes I wonder if papa is trying to be normal like I do, wondering if he has fooled us while looking all torn up to pieces after leaving the bathroom.
Wondering if he has fooled us as he rubs his eyes with both his hands, as he submerge his eyeballs into the water, trying to remove the color of strife and sadness, trying to shut the windows of his soul, locking everyone out but him.
Sometimes I wonder if papa listens to the saddest of music like I do, not to feel that warmth and sadness the artist makes him feel but listening so he had reason to cry.
Sometimes I wonder if papa slept early like I do, not to replenish his energy but to feel the warmth of the pillow, a lifeless form to comfort him.
Sometimes I wonder if papa was like me because that’s how I would be.
sprintingthistles 