Even the paint of your father's house hasn't changed. It is still that old shade of sky-blue. Almond tree still stands in your yard like a mad lover stuck in glorious past, even after 15 years.
15 years since you left our neighbourhood!
In your photographs now, I can't find your chin dimple anymore, hidden behind your double-chin. A little bit of your eyes, a little bit of your hair are alive though- I recognise them through your tinier versions, smiling in your arms, grabbing strands of your hair in their tiny fists.
For a wild moment, I wonder if I could have made you that happy.
I shrug it off remembering how you always complained I could never keep you happy.
Then I also remember the agony in your eyes while you said it.
Like you would rather be unhappy.
The other day, I spotted a familiar painting on a wall of your bedroom in one of your recent photographs.
A little off-place from your interior decoration.
The one I had painted for you years ago.
Now I imagine a little bit of tragedy in your smile in every photograph you post.
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