Justo hoy era el día de cumpleaños de mi papá, y en más de una ocasión coincidía con el día del padre. Recuerdo que estando pequeños, nos bromeaba pidiendo doble regalo, ante la mirada atónita de nosotros, que solo le habíamos hecho un dibujo o alguna manualidad en el colegio.
Él reía muy poco, pero esas veces era inevitable verlo sonreír cuando no teníamos respuesta. Hasta entonces, nunca me había planteado el por qué le costaba tanto hacerlo.
Papá no era gruñón, pero si un tipo serio, que se derretía solamente ante las ocurrencias de sus hijos, sobre todo de las mías: la nenita de papá. Siempre he sido ocurrente, y de niña por supuesto las travesuras venían de mi parte.
Nunca me llegó a regañar o pegar, a pesar de que en más de una oportunidad lo merecía, pero él sabía como hacer para que yo aprendiera la lección sin necesidad de llegar a medidas drásticas.
Recuerdo que rezaba conmigo en las noches y me ponía a pedir por muchas personas, nada más con sus hermanos ya eran 8, más los primos, amigos de la casa, y un sinfín de gente, que yo terminaba protestando.
Me había acostumbrado a dormirme en un regazo, abrazándolo mientras le sobaba la oreja (manías locas mías, y luego me quejo del "brazo de goma" de mi hijo mayor!), así que a los 8 años me regaló una almohadita para dormir, y poder evitar llevarme cargada de la sala a la cama.
Dormí con ella hasta los 24 años! y dejé de hacerlo, porque en un viaje me la robaron junto con todo el equipaje.
Creo que en casa, quien producía las sonrisas de papá era yo, ya que inclusive mi hermano me pedía consejos para enamorar a papá y lograr que le diera un poco más de dinero para su mesada.
Pero papá tenía sus razones para no sonreír. Había una tristeza intrínseca desde su concepción, cuando mi abuela, quien ya tenía 4 hijos, decide que no quería tenerlo a él, e hizo de todo para provocar su pérdida dentro del vientre. Unos sueños extraños lo persiguieron toda la vida, hasta dar con esa noticia, que luego su madre le confirmaría.
Así que la alegría no era precisamente lo que lo definía, pero yo lograba desencajarle su tristeza, creo que hasta el día anterior a su muerte.
Al momento de su partida, yo tenía casi dos meses de embarazo, pero me había enterado solo un par de semanas antes. Pasar esa etapa en medio de un duelo que no viví como hubiese deseado es algo que lamento a diario.
Solía pedirle al universo, que mi hijo no se pareciera a mi papá, no físicamente, pues me resultaría doloroso sentir que para lograr ser madre era necesario perder al amor de mi vida. Y así fue, mi niño se parecía a mi, y sigue siendo mi copia versión masculina.
Pero el destino no iba a quedarse quieto, ya que de tanto recordar a papá, buscaba la manera de hacerme sentir que él también estaba presente en esa criatura, y no solo genéticamente.
Abraham para entonces tendría unos 5 ó 6 meses, estábamos de paseo y por supuesto yo convertida en "mamarazzi" le tomaba fotografías, y cuando paso a ver las miles que le tomé ese día, apareció en él, la sonrisa de papá.
Y a diferencia de lo que yo pensaba sería algo triste, me encantó verlo expresarse a través de mi bebé.
Con el segundo hijo, ya había pasado mas tiempo desde su partida, y una vez más la vida me sorprende, al enviarme otro varoncito, este tan parecido a él, que es difícil no recordarlo cuando sonríe. Hasta mi mamá notó que la forma de su boca es la misma de mi papá.
Y en este caso, mi Fabrizzio es un niño sonriente, ocurrente como yo, y a diferencia de mi papá, fue deseado, planificado y muy amado aunque me hizo la vida a cuadros durante el embarazo.
Con mis hijos, creo que el legado de papá está completo. Ellos han heredado no solo el sexo masculino de él (y de su padre, obviamente) sino también el cumplimiento de aquello que quizás no logró en su paso por esta vida.
Sus sonrisas dibujan la esencia de Luis Alberto (ese era su nombre), y me recuerdan que a pesar de haberse ido de este plano, él no me dejó sola.
Hoy, siendo día del padre y de su cumpleaños, que hubiese sido el número 75, siento que los dos regalos que siempre nos pedía entre sonrisas, me los ha dado él a mi: sus nietos, a quienes no llegó a conocer, pero de seguro cuida desde donde él se encuentre.
Today was my dad's birthday, and on more than one occasion it coincided with Father's Day. I remember that when we were little, he used to joke us asking for double gifts, before the astonished look of us, who had only made him a drawing or a handicraft at school.
He laughed very little, but those times it was inevitable to see him smile when we had no answer. Until then, I had never wondered why it was so hard for him to do so.
Dad wasn't grumpy, but he was a serious guy, who only melted at his children's witticisms, especially mine: daddy's little girl. I have always been witty, and when I was a child, of course, the mischief came from me.
He never scolded me or hit me, even though I deserved it on more than one occasion, but he knew how to make me learn my lesson without having to take drastic measures.
I remember that he would pray with me at night and he would ask me to pray for many people, just with his siblings there were already 8, plus cousins, friends from home, and countless other people, that I would end up protesting.
I had gotten used to fall asleep on his lap, hugging him while I rubbed his ear (crazy things of mine, and then I complain about my oldest son's "rubber arm"!), so when I was 8 years old he gave me a little pillow to sleep on, to avoid carrying me from the living room to bed.
I slept with it until I was 24 years old! and I stopped doing it, because on a trip it was stolen along with all the luggage.
I think that at home, the one who made Dad smile was me, since even my brother would ask me for advice on how to make Dad fall in love with me and get him to give him a little more money for his allowance.
But Dad had his reasons for not smiling. There was an intrinsic sadness since his conception, when my grandmother, who already had 4 children, decided she didn't want to have him, and did everything to provoke his loss inside her womb. Strange dreams haunted him all his life, until he got the news, which his mother would later confirm.
So joy was not exactly what defined him, but I managed to uncrack his sadness, I think until the day before his death.
At the time of his departure, I was almost two months pregnant, but I had only found out a couple of weeks before. Going through that stage in the midst of a mourning that I did not live as I would have wished is something I regret every day.
I used to ask the universe that my son would not look like my father, not physically, because it would be painful for me to feel that in order to become a mother it was necessary to lose the love of my life. And so it was, my boy looked like me, and he is still my copy of the male version.
But destiny was not going to stand still, as it was looking for a way to make me feel that he was also present in this child, and not only genetically.
Abraham would have been about 5 or 6 months old by then, we were out for a walk and of course I became *"mamarazzi "* taking pictures of him, and when I happened to see the thousands I took that day, Dad's smile appeared on him.
And unlike what I thought would be sad, I loved seeing him express himself through my baby.
With the second son, more time had passed since his departure, and once again life surprises me by sending me another little boy, this one so much like him, that it is hard not to remember him when he smiles. Even my mom noticed that the shape of his mouth is the same as my dad.
And in this case, my Fabrizzio is a smiling, witty boy like me, and unlike my dad, he was wanted, planned and much loved even though he made my life checkered during pregnancy.
With my children, I believe Dad's legacy is complete. They have inherited not only his (and their father's, obviously) manhood but also the fulfillment of what he may not have achieved in his time in this life.
Their smiles draw the essence of Luis Alberto (that was his name), and remind me that even though he left this plane, he did not leave me alone.
Today, being Father's Day and his birthday, which would have been his 75th, I feel that the two gifts he always asked for with smiles, he has given to me: his grandchildren, whom he did not get to know, but surely takes care of from wherever he is.
Fotografías por/Photografy by: familiar photo album
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