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Eighty hours since the death of the father

Everything is the same. Father's clothes are still here. Only he is not. His shirts are left hanging on the clothesline. I think it's also a pair of pants. Dad isn't.


The clothes of a dead person cannot stay long in a house. That is what my maternal grandmother said. I objected. Those are my father's clothes. Yes, the grandmother did not keep silent. She said they were Daddy's clothes. Were?! I have not yet accepted this verb.

After the grandmother left, I went to the closet. I pulled out a shirt and a pair of pants. I laid them on the bed. But before I did that. I used to wrinkle them with my hands. I buttoned his shirt. I left two open.


I looked at them. I thought the wrinkling would give me the feeling that my father was sleeping. It was useless. The father's body was not there to fill those clothes. It was all nonsense.


His scent had lingered. Right there! A little smell, but even that would disappear every time they opened the door of the room where Dad slept.

That verb was, I can't accept it. I lay down near my father's clothes. I raised my hand and looked at the clock. Now are eighty hours since my father's death.


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