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  • harika bir shane koyczan şiiri; babasını özleyenler varsa dikkat ile yaklaşsın.


    "you can't just do whatever"
    the words stumbled out of you
    like a drunk leaving a bar looking for a fresh new last call

    you were not a man of words
    but did your best to offer advice
    you offered me "you can't just do whatever"
    and ı know what you meant
    you meant that whatever ı choose to do, ı must not be aimless
    ı must not simply spin this globe and go wherever ı stick my finger
    because 71% of the time ı will end up in the ocean
    and if ı do end up in the ocean ı can't just do whatever,
    better learn to swim

    "you can't just do whatever"

    the conversation came after you asked me about heaven
    told me that you thought heaven would be specific to each person
    and that each person would have their own version of it
    then asked me what mine would be

    ı was so scared to tell you,
    "ı don't have one"
    but you nodded your head,
    as if confirming a suspicion that school
    had robbed me of a belief in some stories
    you said "you don't have to beleive what ı believe, its enough to be good.
    be good"
    ı will.
    ı will think about your heaven
    your heaven would be the same haircut, forever
    ıt would be a stick a dog and some distance
    a lawn that always needs mowing
    a six-pack of pills in those short bottles and your real teeth back
    because your dentures could never master that bottle opening trick you loved to do
    the first time you tried it with dentures ı had nightmares for a month
    because ı though your mouth had fallen off
    your heaven, would be austria before the war
    and canada after you met grandma
    ıt would be head cheese sandwiches and blood sausages
    other deli meats that would ensure you would never ever have to entertain dinner guests
    and ı would never be in danger of having my lunch stolen
    your heaven,
    would be a stash of raisins
    problems that you could fix with your hands
    ı remember you tried to fix everything with your hands
    ı remember the difficult days
    ı remember the bandages
    they looked like tiny blankets, as if your knuckles had all gone off to bed
    walls that looked like they'd said something to get under your skin
    and where suddenly made to pay for it
    ı know you were an angry man
    finger tips like spent shotgun shells, bleeding smoke cocktails of gunpowder and singed plastic
    you had what some people would call, "a temper"
    but you loved a good joke,
    even if it was on you
    something that would crack open the walls of your chest and let the wind tickle your heart
    just enough to let you know it was still there
    you didn't always laugh, didn't always smile
    you did keep a mental ledger of what you called your "send flowers list"
    ı remember thinking it was a thank you to those who got you good
    but learned the truth after my grandmother added a thin layer of sand to your sandwiches
    because you refused to make your own lunch for work
    you told me about it when you picked me up from school that day
    you said "grandma just made the send flowers list"
    and ı asked "because you love her so much?"
    and you said "because ı'm gonna kill her"
    of course you didn't
    your version of kill meant two months before winter,
    having a seamstress take in each of her coats a few inches
    so on the first day she need one
    she fumbled with the sudden tightness
    and you stood there smiling then said "honey, ı love you no matter how big you get"
    she did not laugh
    and managed to staple your smile back into a straight face
    when she told all of your friends at work that you had to move into the spare room
    because you couldn't stop farting at night
    you often asked me "ıf ı had a heaven, what would it be like?"
    and ı told you that for such a small word, if, is just too big to wrap my belief around
    ı would not bend to the hypothetical
    but wish now that ı would've
    even if it was just to ease your mind in the belief
    that ı could be headed to that other place you believed in
    ı would tell you now how my heaven is here
    ıt was here, in the gentle warfare of your relationship with grandma
    where volleys were traded back and forth
    like hockey cards between children who didn't care what the stats meant
    my heaven would have been someone in grade five finally willing to trade me their fruit roll up
    for my tin of sardines
    my hell was wondering "why?" why would you give me sardines for lunch
    my heaven would make you laugh
    cause ı get the feeling you didn't get to do that very much
    through my hell, through the night terrors and bloody noses
    through the eyes black, bruised back, sneak attack, nap sack and winter coat hijacks
    you did your best to seal up the cracks in my armour and made my heaven here
    ı would have loved to have made you laugh more
    to make your send flowers list just once
    so ı offer you now my if
    ıf there is a heaven
    mine would have a post office
    and ı could send letters to yours
    the first letter would read
    "hell's not so bad, they pretty much let you do whatever"