You may be wondering dearest sunflower, about the prolonged absence of your father, longing for his stare while you take a shower, searching for his lips in the middle of lather. He misses your eyes in spite of the distance, those magnanimous nebulas shining in darkness, containing a profound enigma of persistence, that avoided his spirits living in starkness. For he will be unfortunately absent when both your feet kiss the floor, greeting the world while enjoying the balance, feeling powerful, upright, ready to explore. A dead present on a moribund Christmas night will fill the soul with melancholy, depriving him from the expansion of your sight at the purest act of a toy beholding. You will contemplate the first translation of the sun, imagining him coming along with the star, burning your cheeks like a sorrowful son, when its rays tattoo your skin with just his memoirs. Then you would perhaps utter your first words, repeating “dada” as he taught you i
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