Mom calls because I previously had called her. She just learned how to check out her incomings on her new cell. I hadn`t talked to her for months, not since dad died, not really, and everytime she calls its a reminder of how trifle our communication really is. We talk, or rather she talks and most things are terrifying in her words. It isn`t inly her aging, it has been like that for years.
Its early morning, around 0900 - June - I have thrown myself in the smoothing shadow of a wheeping willow at the cementary. Havn`t slept after an almost impossible night on too much brown vodka playing pool with way too young girls in way too disturbing proportions. Having had nothing else but coffee and cigarettes this morning, halfway into the conversation, I really need to take a dump. I`m trying to fight it off, I bite my answers and sentences.
"Mum, I am in a bit of a hury here", I lie. "Was there anything special you wanted to say?"
"Mrs. Larsen called me the other day, to tell me how much you reminded her of Dad when you gave that s h o r t speach at his funeral..."
"I take that as a compliment mum, and give my best to mrs. Larsen. Now, I really gotta run."

I race home, but it is obvious that I cant make it. I am sick, my stommick is sick. I stop at a cafe, order a coffee and head straight for the toilet. I dispite the loss of control.
Damn, if I remind so much about my dad I might as well have been dead with him. Ofcourse, I remember the funreal and emphatize with the lack of strategies to cope with death. I remember the speach, that brought tears to my eyes, my voice blurred and insecure. But I had tought that it was a good speech, not too long or emotional. It was love and forgiveness and sportsmetphor as a badly hidden critic of Dads almost infantile reluctance towards phsysic activities. Non the less it was a speech that I worked on, and wanted to give, I even planned to finish by playing one of Dads all time favourite jazz-track - "Hymn to Freedom" as perfomed by Oscar peterson- as an attempt to refine the emphaty and to express to the guests that I knew dad better than most, them, the guest, mostly remembering me for being a longhaired a´buser they hadnt seen for some 20 odd years, and everything that had happened - or rightfully hadnt happened in their mindsets, was that abuse is non-negotiable - its locked in theri in your barcode, and even if it would be scientifically proven that facts were different, the brand sticks, I come out as a lesser person because it is still morally corrupt.

Its the world that wont go away.