The second death

I’m scared.
I’m scared because it’s been so long since I last heard your voice that I don’t even know what it sounded like anymore.

And it breaks me inside.
I close my eyes, I try to find you, I try to hear you… but all I find is silence.

I remember the day I lost you.
I remember the pain, the tears, how the world kept moving while mine stopped.

I remember many things.
But I don’t remember your voice.
And there are nights when that hurts more than anything else.

Because death took you once.
But time… time is taking you a second time.

Little by little. Without noise. Without permission.
Erasing details I swore I would never forget.

I don’t have an audio. I don’t have a video.
I don’t have anything that brings me back a few seconds with you.

Only memories.
And every year they feel heavier, but further away.

Sometimes I stare at your photo for too long.
As if looking away might make you disappear again.

And then that question comes.
The one that haunts me in the silence.

If I’ve already forgotten your voice… what comes next?

Your laugh? Your eyes? The way you said my name?
Or one day, will I forget your face too?

And I panic.
Because a child shouldn’t be afraid to forget their father, but I am.

Sometimes I try to imagine your voice.
But I don’t know anymore if it’s really you or just me rebuilding you.

And it hurts.
It hurts in a way that doesn’t make noise, but fills everything.

Because losing you was horrible.
But losing you again, memory by memory, is worse.

And if one day I forget your voice, or your face…
it won’t be because I loved you less.

It will be because I spent years trying to hold onto something slipping away.

But there is something that doesn’t leave.
The emptiness you left behind.

And the love that is still here