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g

grieve; /ɡriːv/ [v.]

•

It was 2012 and I was prepping for the Euro 2012 when you called me in the middle of the training. You know my schedule and you know I strictly forbid any calling during training. We were taking break, still laughing and smiling and I decided to check my phone. 9 fucking miscalls from you and 2 messages.

Somebody's phone rang and I looked up to see Kuba fetching his phone from his locker. His forehead scrunched and he answered it. I watched the colour of red on his face faded and he stared at me in the most horrific way. I had swear my heart had sink in and my head spun.

My mind had come out with hundreds of ways Margo Błaszczykowska could've gotten into an accident and killed herself.

'Kuba--'

I said and he passed the phone. I watched as the boy slowly sat in the bench and rubbed his face. What should I do, what should I do, what should I do, he muttered in repeat.

'Margo?' I asked firmly.

'Papa is dead.' You said.

•

You father died approximately three- four weeks (I'm not sure because I am quite forgetful) before the starting of Euro 2012. We fought on phone regarding whether I should come or not. But you insisted that I shouldn't. And I respected your decision. I'd helped Kuba booked his flight and drove him to the airport. He didn't cry and it made me want to.

Your father is dead, how can you not cry?

But in yours and Kuba's minds, it's: Your murderous, childhood ruiner father is dead.

And I get that.

Everyone in the football industry knew. It remained on the front page of every newspaper of Poland; The father stabbed the mother witnessed by their two children. Then the news disappeared in two weeks. Then, the press brought it up again during the course of his father's trial. You were quite young, still struggled to understand what had happen so you stayed in Kuba's arms, who had automatically became the father and mother figure in your life.

Then you turned 12 and demanded to know the what and why.

Anyway, I didn't hear anything from you for the rest of the night and it worried me. I had keep me awake. I walked in for training the next morning as usual. All eyes on me but nobody dared to open their mouths and asked. Some of them might have gotten their hands on the gossip of the heart-breaking Błaszczykowski's Family tragedy and were itching to ask. Training went on quietly and different. We were missing Kuba and the defence was missing me who had my mind on you.

What are you thinking, Go?

What are you doing?

What is on your mind?

Are you crying or are you happy?

Are you mourning?

I came home and waited for you to call me. I cancelled all plans and kept the ringer on high. The minute you were alone and I was half-asleep, you called. We talked 6 hours long, going back and forth through your life so you won't be pulled back into theirs.

You didn't sound sad. You sounded calm, I could hear the disappointment but you and Kuba didn't sound sad as what a person at a funeral should be. You said you didn't cry; 'Nobody cried except for Grandma. She cried her souls out.'

I didn't dare to make any comments on your lack of tears and then you said and brought it up, 'I guess I'm so used of dying family that this doesn't seem out of ordinary.'

'You do sound disappointed.' I said.

'My whole childhood ended the moment that tip of blade pierced my mother's skin.' I heard the rustling sound of your skin against the bed as you shifted, 'I am disappointed. I would never knew why papa did that. Kuba might have lost his contact with papa but I didn't. I tried to talk him out into telling me but he wouldn't so I would scream at him but he handled it like a father tending his children's tantrum. Luka, I lost my reason of living because of him but--'

'But you love him.'

And that was it. 'He's my father.' I could hear the choking sound of your sob you were holding back. 'As much as how mad I am at him, he's my father. I am disappointed, he is my father. He was all I had other than Kuba and Nana and Uncle Jer.'

I swallowed hard, 'I'm sorry.'

A soft chuckle tried to hide your sobbing away and I could imagine you shaking your head and rubbing the tears away with the back of your hands. 'Don't be. None of us--me and Kuba ever talked about forgiving him; maybe I should. Life is all about forgiving right?' You sniffled, 'I might be willing to forgive, I just don't think I'll be willing to forget yet.'

We talked until the point you sounded exhausted and we laid on our respective side of our different beds; you on your left side in a small village of Poland and me on the other side of the bed in the Leinz, Austria.

We were miles away apart but I had never felt so close to you.

You left your phone beside you as you fell asleep. I laid awake on bed and listened to your breathing until I knew you were safe; until I know you finally didn't need me for the night.