If I hear a lullaby, I remember
I’m not sure how laud is rain outside, but some turmoil is taking over my mind. The latest words are bouncing with an echo that resonates with that storm beyond the windows. Meanwhile, I see my newborn daughter peacefully sleeping.
He has just departed. Those were the words I heard just few moments ago. I’ll be on my way to Lima early tomorrow morning, so at least I can attend your funeral. I wind up the music box you sent as a newborn gift. Debussy now sounds so painful.
On my way there, stuck between airport and airport, I’m desperately trying to write down any memory I can recall of you. After quite a while, the same page in front of me has only one sentence: I woke up after a nightmare, I went and laid down next to him, he hugged me, and I felt safe again. I can’t remember more with enough clarity. Where did my memories go? I know they’re there, but why can’t I access any of them?
I’m back home, and it has become hard to ignore this mix of joy and grief. On one hand, I’m finally understanding what it the true meaning of falling in love. I can hold my daughter with only one arm, she is so small but her eye’s sparks are very familiar. On the other, the pain of knowing I won’t be able to see you again casts one of the darkest shadows I’ve ever felt. I’m still trying to find for extra memories so can hang on them but, it has became useless. Those attempts feel as if I’m scuba diving into my own memories without an oxygen tank.
Time does what it is good for: passes. I’m getting used to this stupid ache from not being able to remember us together, yet at the same time, it swells with love as I watch my children grow. How complex life is becoming. I suppose I just need to move forward and come to terms with the high possibility that the memories my kids have with me, these ones, will be forgotten as well. Everything is in constant motion, leaving me no time to understand or make peace with the constant grief that comes and goes.
The way I’m navigating fatherhood has become an extension of what I think you would do if you were here —what you would say to them, how you would hug and protect us. Intuition tells me you’re still with us.
As I watch the kids grow, I’m finally able to make some memories resurface. It’s as if what I have in front of me fades into a projection of my own time with you.
Seems this key might open the lock. I can’t find logic or words to explain it; all I can do is keep taking photos with the frustrating reality that my kids will never meet you. And yet, I can’t help but recognize your facial expressions, moods, and reactions in them. They say, genetics are genetics.
More memories return: the smell of fireworks, wicked glances after my mischief, the shield you became against my mom’s scolding, the patience you had with my immature reactions —like the time I got out of the car, fed up with having to learn your driving style.
Perhaps I need to learn how to treasure the few memories I have left and, bubble-wrap them together with these new ones so, at the end they aren’t taken by the ephemeral fragility of time. What else can I do?
Now that the memories have become a bit clearer, I can imagine playing with them as I recall how you used to hold my hand to cross the streets. Your grandchildren have been the ones who helped me rescue the memories I still have of you. They are the ones able to draw out the warmth you mostly left inside me.
