Eight year old Eva used to awaken at all hours of the night, click on a flashlight, and grab whichever book had been maintaining substantial intrigue from the-then present day. It wasn’t that I couldn’t sleep, but that I did not want to sleep, an oft repeating theme into present.

So perhaps it wasn’t insomnia, at least not at that age. Rather a focal-point sensation which permeated the dream state, spanning experiential worlds of ephemera.

In those years no differences persisted more or less relevance to the mind than the other; substantive relevance was maintained insofar as whichever world persisted the all-knowing Vati, that immutable-immeasurable idealized Man. He mattered, and he was only present in one of the worlds.

We spoke on the phone today, and the Sunday prior; a evolving weekly pattern for the past month, which in summation is more total time than the entire previous year. Often on these calls it feels as though nothing has ever changed, my eyes light up just as they did during those early years, and similarly does his voice over the line - sounding exactly the same as in those early years.

I doubt I’ll be able to handle his departure, and so it is only now that I realize it’s been easier to be upset and to carry that emotion around as a buffer space; a misdirection, a protective filter which existed in-stead of coming to terms with the inevitable reality that one day he will no longer be in any of the worlds, that I could lose him all over again, genau wie fraülein im achten Jahr.