It was there,

Always there.

In the long studio,

In the one room apartment,

In the new house,

In the green living room.

 

It was always there.

In the second spring

In the eighteenth summer,

In the dusty winter,

In the rusty fall.

 

It was there in my childhood –

Taking away the time I could’ve spent with him

                Drawing, teaching,

                Drawing, learning.

I sat on the cold tiled floor

Looking at the masterpiece

                Unfinished.

Two eyes full of wonder,

Two eyes full of two years of life

Two eyes begging for a hug, or a kiss

                Or a goodnight lullaby.

It was there, hidden in plain sight

For all eyes to never see.

 

It was there in Her childhood

Its grandeur inhabiting the new house,

                The one where we all fit

                The one where I ceased to exist.

She sat on the old blue couch,

Looking at the masterpiece

                Finished.

Two eyes full of wonder,

Two eyes full of two years of life

Two eyes basking in your hugs and kisses

                And your goodnight lullabies.

It was there, displayed on the green wall

For all eyes to always see.

 

It was there during Christmas.

The last remains of Your happiness –

                The brush in Your hand

                The paint in Your pants.

You sit there by Your cluttered desk

Work and Dues to pay

                Unfinished.

Two eyes tired of everything going wrong

Two eyes full of thirty-nine years of wasted life

Two eyes waiting for another chance

At love,

Or freedom,

Or art.

It is there, behind the misery where You hide

For all eyes to never see.

 

It was there.

It’s always there.

The first thing I see after a 5 hour flight,

Or a sleepless night that drives me to that new brown couch.

It is there with that ’98 flair

It is there with Padrino

And there with Carli.

It is there with that oppressing red, white and blue flag

                That robbed me of my smile

                And my family.

It is there with Your sweat and smiles

With the hopes and dreams

Of Your twenty-three year old self;

It is there gathering dust,

Because none of us dare touch it

                Or clean it

In fear of stripping away

All that remains of Your happiness.

It is there and will always be there.

Your painting, my poem.

The concrete proof

Of what we both lost,

Our heritage,

Our art,

Our passion

Ourselves.