Beauty Seen is Never Lost

Tribute to My Uncle Eissa, the epitome of life and living.

He was that kind of boy; with dog-eared schoolbooks and neatly folded clothes. His curly hair was combed precisely at each end, and his wide eyes were always wandering. They say he was the most sophisticated of them all in appearance; buttons buttoned and shirts always tucked in.
But he was also that kind of boy; with stolen marbles in his pockets and cons up his sleeves. He knew every fallen stone in the neighborhood, every hiding corner, every wounded animal. He knew which gum wrappers held the ‘winning’ photos they’ve all collected at the time, and which ones were merely candy delights. He knew of traps, of knotted ropes around handles, and of buried coin jars. He was that kind of boy; with a raging fire within him that’s never out.

He was that kind of man who stacked pale stamps and faded photographs; who loved to record every distinctive sound, moment, joke, anecdote, or conversation, in that leather journal he kept so close. He was that kind of man; who would start a fire, just to watch the red flames engulf the blue within them, and to hear that hypnotizing crackling sound of the woods crumbling.
He was that kind of man; with condensed dreams tucked under his arms and a million tomorrows beneath them all. He knew how to weave aviation strategies without looking at a plane; and the beauty of unraveling worlds within worlds undersea. He knew the worth of self-fulfillment that shadows a risk of following an intense passion. He knew it all, and died knowing it.

He was that kind of father; who scrapped off words from every surface, and redistributed them as stories to his five children. He knew how to heal a wounded knee with mockery and laughter; and how to turn mundane trips and gatherings into endless theatrical plays. He was that kind of father; who wrapped values within parodies and instilled morals with an easing sense of humor. That kind of father, who gave everything; just to preserve every ounce of childhood, innocence, and life at every corner of the house.

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And so he goes,
another beautiful soul;
And so does that still world I’ve once believed I gripped; falling deep into an abyss I no longer see;
my loved ones, and their crooked smiles,
my loved ones, and their ridiculous sense of being
my loved ones, and their snippets of comfort,

From here on, in the clinging stench of death, and as the last breaths of those I’ve held so dear had ascended to the circus of the skies, I knew that these things I know for sure, would no longer be, and everything that we’ve built, breathed, and loved, would crumble. This ceaseless suffering year after year, would eventually fold everyone it touches like a choking weed. And, how after this, would one dare to love again?

Posted by Diddlina at 10:11 AM