I miss his lemony scent, and leaning against him on the sofa as he fingered my hair and kissed the top of my head. I miss the feel of his soft lips and prickly moustache on my forehead, the way he’d mispronounce bicycle and his impromptu rants about Mexicans, private healthcare and rubbish collection.
Everyone says grief grips you long after, when you least expect it, when you accept that you will never again hear your Babbo’s baritone voice, or smell his lemony neck, or feel his soft lips and prickly moustache on your face. That’s when the gaping chasm in your heart swallows you whole and you can no longer see for the tears cascading from your eyes onto your keyboard like a dripping tap.
So you try to quell the pain by wrapping your lonely arms around your sleeping child, spooning him, weeping quietly into the back of his neck, while he breathes deeply, innocently, knowing that some day you too will inflict upon him the kind of anguish you yourself feel today, and hoping he may have someone in his life who makes his grief slightly more bearable.