And in the end, the heart breaks. After all of the walls, the sharpest of swords, the world is naked, the heat hails from inside. The only weapon left is wind.
I spent my entire life trying to protect myself from such madness. Begging my parents to promise me that nothing devastating could destroy my small world. And now I know that there will be no one to explore New York's best burgers; to sip tea with at daybreak; to know every right moment to embrace me; to share Korean noodles; to take photographs of flowers; to call me Kissyfur in reference to a past of rabbit-fur clad stuffed bears; to read me fairytales until dawn; to find my laughing spot inside; to love me so largely and lavishly.
My heart is broken in every which way, shattered, jagged, jaunt. There are no words to describe the pain inside, amplified only by the raw eyes of my mother and sister. I need my father today, tomorrow. Always.
I need him now. The rough of his beard. The shine of his head. The shoulder that lent me so many nights of sleep. That heart that failed him but never, not in once in my 24 years of life, failed me.
