273

Seventeen.

It wasn’t me who killed you, father.
It wasn’t me, you see.
It was, it was
An accident, I feel.
It was in summer, no, spring, May
23rd, maybe,
May 22nd they said, or
May 21st?

I’ll never know,
I never went back
To the police.
I never went back
To see the report
I only panicked
And phoned
A friend.
Called the neighbors
In
To
The room.

I called them, they came, they said they hadn’t seen you for ages, they was worried they said, they were hoping they said. I said:
He’s dead.

I think I didn’t kill you, my dad.
I think it was
The alcohol.
I think it was

Food poisoning, they said. Ate something wrong, they said, something bad, something rotten, maybe. Yes, I thought.

Yes,
I remember.

Whenever I came to visit you, dad, there was mold in the fridge. More mold each time, less food. More mold, less food. More mold.

You ate some fish, maybe.
Your favorite meal and

It killed you, my man, not me, no, I didn’t.
I

Just
Ran
Off,
Away. Left you alone, came back to visit. Once
Every week.

Sometimes you were
Not home, you were
Out there
On the streets
Drinking.

I saw you,
I did.

Sometimes you were
Here
There
With me
When I came
To visit.
You begged
– I was your daughter, remember?
You begged
Money off me
Tobacco off me,
But mostly you begged
That
I
Care.

I didn’t.
You see, I chose

Not to.

I left.
You died.

I didn’t kill you, my father. But
I am sorry about
The way
You
Died.
May 23rd
Or 22nd
Or maybe
May 21st,
1994.

 

Joey Juschka

 

 

Aus: Christiane Frohmann (Hg.), Tausend Tode schreiben, Berlin: Frohmann, E-Book, 2014 bis heute
#1000tode #tod #sterben #trauer

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