I pray to him, bare knees on a wood floor, in my warm bed, sitting a restaurant; anywhere in the world. I pray to him after a difficult day or early in the morning. I pray to him when I'm heartbroken, happy, lonely, confused. I look up at the ceiling, into a blur of anonymous people, or sometimes, in the mirror at my own reflection and I speak with him. I feel like I'm talking to an old friend, someone I love but never get around to seeing enough. I believe, somewhere, somehow, he can hear me. I often cry when I pray to him because I miss him. Since he died, I have never asked God for anything.
"Please, Patrick, help me," I say out-loud or in my head. It doesn't matter. We don't need sounds to hear each other.
No comments:
Post a Comment