The memory of my father is a treasure that I keep from forgetting in the tender reliquary of my affections. This good man with an early gray hair and an eternal smile was so important in my life that he became a reference point. Today, as my years surpass him at the time of his departure, his existential codes continue to guide me through even the most complex scenarios. Too bad I don’t always apply them to writing. It is rightly said that people are more like their time than their parents.

My neurons do not define the exact context in which his charming image debuted in my childhood vision. Was it when he took me to clean the taro to a regular barber? Or that time when he got angry for a while because I “discovered”, hidden behind a piece of furniture, a set of soldiers that he asked for as a gift from the Three Wise Men? When the surprise factor collapsed, he had no choice but to call the figures, invent a story about bearded monarchs and laugh at my naive obsession.

I began to enjoy the occasional walks in his company, even if they only went out to the corner. I would swell with pride if someone decided to tell him how similar we are. At that time, I had already learned to read, and he, also a reader, instilled this habit in me by buying me children’s books and magazines, with comics for which I developed sympathy.

In his work as a reader-collector of electric meters, he was tireless. He toured the city, riding his Soviet bicycle, to which he
All the screws rattled, but always held high. I see him wearing a yarrier hat and tightrope-walker glasses on the tip of his nose as he writes numbers into a book full of pages and customer names.

A stubborn lark, he got out of bed in the cool air, ready for his first wash, and listened to repentistas – one of his hobbies – on the WEF radio, which we gave him for his birthday to replace the old RCA made by Victor. from wood and fittings. didn’t disappear either afternoon pleasuresand less Saint Nicholas del Peladero on this black-and-white Krim 218 TV, always cloudy because of the drizzle.

I remember him making tomato puree in a device he designed himself that made the task much easier. Or plant vegetables in a small area that we had behind the house. Or helping with deliveries at the store next door, with that wrapping skill that everyone praised him. Or pretending not to know what I smoked, even though every month I withdrew strong cigarettes from the quota…

Father was a man with a cheerful character, always with a lively spree. “Kids don’t respect you because you play with them too much,” his mother scolded him when she saw him pinching one or hiding the ball from another. He also made fun of her, such as hinting at her age in front of third parties, knowing that, as is the case with many women, she did not get along well with the subject. They formed a decent couple, which was separated only by death.

When I was a scholarship student, he knew about my discipline, my grades, and even agreed to head the parent council, just to please me. When I had a pass, he managed to get me a liquor to unload with my friends. In those difficult times – any resemblance to today is no coincidence – I managed to alternate my depressing outfit with some of his other clothes, especially gabardine pants, which, just imagining them now, make me blush.

He shared with me and my picket as if he were one of the others, despite the obvious generational differences. He liked to play against me in football, baseball or any other sport, and he did it just to feel like a part of my passions. From his modest salary, he always left something for my parties or youth parties. He didn’t sleep until he got home.

I still chastise those times when I “stealed” change from his pocket while he blinked at noon. These were the days when a simple peseta could buy two cones of homemade ice cream from a vendor who sold them from a cart. He noticed my antics and pretended to be asleep so as not to interrupt them.

He went to another dimension without warning and without even hurting his calluses. Until the last minutes of his life, he maintained a cheerful and optimistic mood. It was the epilogue he always wanted. He did not inherit anything material, but he left a book of propriety, which I try to take into account in my behavior. Years have passed. However, no one knows how much I need your advice right now! Today is Father’s Day, I remember it like the good old days. dear old man…

Source: Juventud Rebelde