April 24, 2020
For Pep, 22 years later
You tried to steal all of my
holidays:
your birthday, just days before
mine;
Bloomsday forever the anniversary
of your death. Somehow, until today,
Sant Jordi
had escaped. Never a holiday –
none of mine
ever were – World Book Day
is now a thing,
but then Sant Jordi was mine
by adoption –
count the books in my house
dated April
23rd – and yours by birth:
Barcelona
being the only thing we had
in common
when we succumbed to the thrill
of the
first kiss, to the knowledge that we had
arrived at our shared doorstep, our first
day
of blind choices, so glaringly
obvious
in hindsight.
Those six books, because you made
it
to a sixth, line the shelf by our
bed, the bed
I haven’t slept in since
February, since
travelling home to see our
daughter fence
and being trapped by this
pandemic. Trapped
at home, not home. In a house I
never grew up in,
with a father I barely recognize,
far from all
those books, from all those Sant
Jordis
on my own, with my girls, with
you, without you,
on my own.
Here at my home not home I have
nothing to hand
which your hand touched, no
inscription, no dates,
no declarations of love. This is
my seventeenth
Sant Jordi without you, though
you never took it
away. It has taken a pandemic. So
now, instead
of Sant Jordi, instead of streets
full of books and
young people hawking roses,
instead of exhaustion
from kilometers shuffled among
human currents
flowing past author signings,
spending too much
money, weighted by books I will
never finish, I am
quarantined, confined. the first
Sant Jordi I have
missed. The first Sant Jordi I
have spent
just missing you.
kc 23 April 2020
143