Tranquil hours coverd in warm clothes
tasteful coffee and great stories.
Reading expands the horizon of our minds,
that is what my father told me
when I was too small to comprehend the word horizon,
when the meaning was too far from my world.
Today I caught my father reading a book,
the one he has read at least ten times,
the one that makes him be so still and peaceful.
I asked him if the story did not bore him now,
after so many times going through the same pages.
His horizon must be infinte,
I thought, while touching all the books within our little home,
wondering if he still remembers these stories,
or if they have faded just like the letters inside.
Tranquil hours, filled with warmth that touches my heart.
I have read Fitzgerald again, today.
My father smiled, a victorious smile,
stories will never bore you, if they are written well,
each time you read them, you will fall in love with new words.
“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.”
And I read it again,
Jehona Thaqi ©