By Sam Yau
When you put a bullet
through your brain,
you were only 27.
You used to tell me how
you’d sit alone in the park,
watching others in silence.
Dissociated, you said
you felt like a ghost,
an alien who didn’t belong.
One scene after another,
you’d relive each trauma
like a vivid full-sensory
replay, in endless loops
you couldn’t escape.
You withdrew from life to
avoid all possible triggers,
stayed in your dimly lit room
with the curtains drawn,
a prisoner of your fear.
You’d wake up wishing
you were still asleep,
you’d sleep, wishing
you’d never wake up,
in between,
you’d drink whisky
to numb your pain
until you puked.
With tears streaming
down your face,
you told me it was too late,
your brain had been damaged—
the alarm kept blasting
even when there was no fire—
it would not stop enflaming
past traumas in your mind.
You were a runaway car with
no brakes on your anger and
the gas pedal stuck to the floor.
I would hug you
and tell you
you would live.
You told me
you were already dead.
My heart was shattered
in a million pieces.
Fear gripped me,
my pulse pounded,
my body shook.
When I heard that
you were gone,
there was an explosion
of love for you in my heart.
I feel closer to you every day.
I see you everywhere—
a baby in a carrier,
a boy running to his dad,
a young man in a café,
birds, clouds…
It is my turn to be
endlessly triggered.
I never knew about the
bottomless well
of tears in me.
Your light has never dimmed.
You are so loved.
Your soul never carries
a trace of injury.
You have forgiven all who
hurt you in human life.
You time-travel back to
feel the love of
family and friends
you couldn’t perceive then.
You have signed up
to help mortals suffering
in the same way
from the other side.
I have been
dreaming of
my next life,
of being with you again,
to do a better job of
loving and
protecting you.
Will you let me be
your dad again?
Painting by Olena Zavakevych