“…muerto…”, dead. Meaningless sounds hitting dysfunctional eardrums after powerful muscles ejected me from my conceiver’s body. A scream.
“…cien mil…”, hundred thousand. Sounds. Meaningless.
Grew up in Texas, son to a rich family. The ghastly truth hit me age nineteen, marrow transplant, incompatibility. My mother confessed.
I landed in Spain, traced the priest, the doctor who resisted until, threatened with exposure, gave me the name. Consuela Maria Teresa…all eighteen names.
I bought half the front page of El Pais for an ad: “…hijo muerto busca su madre Consuela…”, dead son searches…
Three days later. A knock on the door…
Yossi Faybish was born in Romania, where he spent his childhood absorbing a rich cultural heritage seeping through the imperfect seals of an oppressive system. He finished his higher studies in Israel, and then wandered away with his job and his family, finally ending in Belgium. He works in and is passionate about the high-tech industry, though writing is a serious runner-up; or maybe it’s the other way around. Yossi writes prose and poetry in a variety of styles and languages, mainly English and Romanian. “I want people to know not the what but the way I think,” he says. yossifaybish.com. aquillrelle.com.
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