Paintbushes

         

Kneeling in front of your grave tears flow free down my face. I know will not see you again and never again will look in your deep blue eyes.

You spent years suffering with your disease, Parkinson's, I saw you drift away over the years. You tried to control the tremors by start painting, there are some beautiful pictures painted by you, then it no longer helped you. At that time, you'd just get in your camera, your one great love, so that, even in your last moments, to achieve and control the tremors across the street from your house to the garden square with your crutches hanging from your arms and you gave firm steps without any indication of trembling. But that it lasted a shirt time, quickly your the forces lacked and the tremors returned.

I still remember being little and  fear of your finger without nail you that had cut in the guillotine when you were younger and still played soccer in Rio Ave and tried to make a name for yourselft in photography.

Many trips, so many prizes, is it really be worth it?

Life is not rewarded you with children, lived for work and for us, your nieces, even if you do not always see us.

Were you happy,all that life brought you made you the man that I remember now. I could not come to your funeral, sorry I could not see you like that, so that my memory of you was the one when I was a child and I used chase you into the darkroom, where you revealed the rollers and tell your secrets, I just remember when you taught me to paint with your crayons a beautiful red rose and your smile that lit up your blue eyes.

You can leave now, I'm ready to let you go, I will go on with my life keeping you in my heart and in my memory forever like this huge man who played and laughed like a child.