You sent me a shirt. The wearing. You sober. With the writing of a group equally sober. A group that does not know and I barely heard anything. But just look at her, relief printing on rough cotton, it happens that I go back there. We are on your car. It is one of those rare and painful happy days. It's hot. Because it's summer. Smell the salt and sand. We are. Maybe we did talk, maybe you have hidden under the sand his head, maybe something not quite right. But who remembers? He was the only indisputable, the indescribable. Grains between the toes and in costume. The texture of your skin on my palms. The salty taste of peace, the violence of happiness.
And suddenly screams. And laugh. It's like when one down a box of nails, your laugh. And I like the nails. We just passed a couple with a stroller. I had not even noticed. But you laugh and say that the boy has the Misfits shirt. I turn back just in time to catch a glimpse of the black T-shirt with what is perhaps a skull. To you enjoy so much that a father has a shirt like that.
And the cockpit is full of you, and I'll do my usual smile. And now I know. Now that I have this shirt that you've chosen is unclear to me why this moment is so important. Why does it happen that laughed when we thought the same thing. Perhaps never admit it. And maybe you can even realize that you've really thought about.
But at that moment, in that burst of happiness, our minds and our hearts are synchronized. Our mouths may not have had the courage to materialize a fantasy so far and seemingly impossible. However, for a moment, those three were walking to us.
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