the sky is the limit

they wore boots with stars and a rainbow
they drew fire spitting dragons and canons on my fathers coffin
the blackest black and the bluest blue
his name, their names, their own hands and hearts, many hearts

december 21, the longest night ever, the night of our wake
the last night we could touch his hands, see his smile
the night we were hungry because we shook hundreds of hands
because we looked into a thousand of sad eyes
the night we sat around him in his own living room and drank wine and used his feet to put the crisps on
without hesitation

and the next morning
when two beautifully dressed girls danced through the street from his house
spreading rose leaves on the tarmac
and one of the neighbours stopped traffic so we could slowly carry a man through the village where he was born, where he had lived for 63 years

the afternoon when we returned
and when we put his chair back to the place where it belonged
empty
but where, when we returned from the kitchen with fresh coffee
and our favorite chocolate
his grandson, who was born on the same date he was, was sitting

damn
life is terrible
terribly beautiful