Dejar ir, quedarme con los libros de papá que usaré [ESP-ENG]

! [English version available by clicking here]
Five years have passed; it's hard, but not as hard as it was back then.

Five years ago, when Dad left, I put all his books in a box. They're one of the few things I was able to keep because a relative threw everything else away.

That moment was hard for me. I picked up his books crying, and that person stopped, at least.

After that, I didn't know what to do. I don't have space at home, so I put them in a box. I cried while I did it. They're his books; he held them in his hands, wrote in some of them, underlined passages, and jotted down ideas in notebooks.

These books were his companions, and now they're mine on this crazy journey I've embarked on in life.

I avoided looking at them too much because the crying was overwhelming. I couldn't stop crying.

Although the hardest part was seeing his handwriting on thousands of pages. I cried again; I couldn't stop crying.

And that's how the first two years after he left were. I don't think my friends noticed (I always put on a smiling face, or tried to, while inside I was dying); only my sister and my mother knew.

So last month I mustered up the courage to take the books out of the boxes, sort them, and see what I could read.

It turned out Dad had some very interesting books, so many of the ones I wanted were there.

You might be wondering why I didn't know I had these books. It turns out we weren't very close, and that hurts even more. It wasn't until the last year of his life (without knowing it would be his last) that we started to have a closer father-daughter relationship. So you can imagine how hard it was to lose him just when you finally have your father back.

My sister and I sorted them. It wasn't easy, but at least I didn't cry; I just felt that lump in my throat you get when your soul aches.

Now I have a long row of books in my room, while I'll donate others to the city's public libraries. Because I know I won't read them; they don't really appeal to me, so I'd rather someone else put them to good use.

Meanwhile, I'll keep the books I enjoy. And later they'll be in a library I'll buy or build (I'm at that point in my life where I want to be Bob the Builder).

So I don't know how to define this chapter of my life. Continue? Leave it behind? No, I don't think either of those terms is right. Perhaps letting go of the pain is the most appropriate thing, perhaps.

And all this stems from what I've been thinking about lately. I don't want my children (when I have them) to see the sadness in my eyes.

Perhaps they'll notice that when I get emotional I cry, or that I'm very sensitive. But I don't want them to see me sad.

Because it's not something I want to pass on to them; I want to give them lots of love, affection, happiness, and lots of laughter. I want to give them what I couldn't have because of life's circumstances, so they don't feel what's inside me right now. That pain, that flame that's still burning and slowly consuming my chest.

That's why I'll keep some of his books, the sound of his laughter, that unique way he pronounced my name, my sister's name, and Mom's name. I'll cherish the love he had for his animals, his passion for plants, and all the beauty and goodness that Dad represented.

And so, little by little, I trust it will hurt a little less.