Hacía tiempo que Andrés buscaba la manera de contactar con su padre. Quería conocerlo, saber quién era y los motivos por los que los había abandonado. Miraba su reloj cambiar continuamente. El tiempo desde su partida hasta ahora se podía resumir en tristeza y dolor.
La identidad es un bien muy preciado, y Andrés tenía en mente el dicho que dice que para saber hacia dónde vamos tenemos que saber de dónde venimos. Su futuro, creía él, dependía de encontrar a su padre. Ahora que lo había contactado se sentía un poco ansioso. Ya llevaba en el café un poco menos de media hora, y el hombre no aparecía.
Quería saber el origen de su nombre, quién era aquel que se lo había dado. Tenía muchas preguntas, la necesidad de saber el por qué del abandono a pesar de llevar en su ser algo que lo representaba.
«Nombres son nombres» decía para sí mismo «no te puedes condicionar a algo que llevas de otra persona sin saber quién es, tu futuro no debe condicionarse al de otra persona que nunca viste en tu vida».
Trataba de consolarse con esas palabras. Intentaba descifrar entre la gente quién podía ser el hombre al que nunca llamó padre. El reloj ya pasaba las tres de la tarde. «La hora del futuro incierto» era el título del libro que tenía en sus manos para entretenerse mientras esperaba. Ironías de la vida, el hombre que había escrito ese libro era el mismo que nunca apareció.
Andrés had been looking for a way to contact his father for some time. He wanted to meet him, to know who he was and the reasons why he had abandoned them. He watched his watch change continuously. The time from his departure until now could be summed up in sadness and pain.
Identity is a precious commodity, and Andres had in mind the saying that to know where we are going we have to know where we came from. His future, he believed, depended on finding his father. Now that he had contacted him he felt a little anxious. He had been in the café for a little less than half an hour, and the man had not appeared.
He wanted to know the origin of his name, who it was that had given it to him. He had many questions, the need to know why he had been abandoned despite the fact that he carried in his being something that represented him.
"Names are names" he said to himself "you cannot be conditioned to something you carry from another person without knowing who it is, your future should not be conditioned to that of another person you never saw in your life".
He was trying to console himself with those words. He was trying to decipher among the people who could be the man he never called father. The clock was already past three in the afternoon. "The Hour of the Uncertain Future" was the title of the book he held in his hands to entertain him while he waited. Ironies of life, the man who had written that book was the same man who never showed up.
