MISSING MY FATHER

Sometimes I try not to remember how my father died. Sometimes, however, I hear his voice that still asks me how I am. My father always asked me how I was. 
My mother never asked me, on the contrary she told me that I should have died and not my father. Sometimes I try to forget certain bad words from my mother. 
I light a candle, light incense, pretend he's home and wait to celebrate something with me. I miss him very much. 
My mother was always there to draw fashion sketches, perhaps for this reason I don't like fashion. My father had a passion for watches in his spare time.
He liked to fix broken mechanisms, stood with the magnifying glass and tried to fix them. It was good to see those miracles and after all they were ticking again.
It was magic and I was a child and I looked at him as if he were a magician.