If I hear a lullaby, I remember
I’m not sure how laud is rain outside, but some turmoil is taking over my mind. Those latest words over the phone are bouncing with an echo that find their rhythm with the storm beyond the windows. Meanwhile, I see my newborn daughter peacefully sleeping.
He has just departed. That was it. You finally left a few moments ago and, I am here chasing a future instead of being there to say Thank you. Anyway, I’ll be on my way to Lima early tomorrow morning, so at least I can attend your funeral. I wound up the music box you sent for your first granddaughter's crib. Debussy now sounds so painful.
On my way there, stuck between airport, terminals and gates, I’m desperately trying to recall memories so I can write them down before they are gone, because I know, sooner or later they will be. After quite a while, the same page in front of me has only one sentence that I can hardly can read: A nightmare woke me up in the middle of the night, I went and laid down next to you, you hugged me, and I felt safe again. Why can't I remember more with that clarity? Where did all my memories go? I know they’re there, but why can’t I access any of them, at least some of them?
I’m back home, and it has become natural to live with 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 and the spark in her eyes feels like that hug you gave me. On the other hand, the pain of knowing you won’t be able to hold her, casts one of the darkest shadows I’ve ever felt. I’m still trying to find extra memories to hold on, but at this point it is useless. Those attempts feel as if I’m scuba diving into my own memories without an oxygen tank.
Time does what it is good at: it passes. I’m getting used to this stupid ache of not being able to remember us together, yet at the same time, my chest swells with love as I watch both of my children grow. Maybe that is what it means to let go. How complex life is becoming. I suppose I just need to move forward and prepare for the 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 the imaginary dialogue you and I would have if you where here. I can imagine what you would say to them, how you would hug and protect us. Intuition tells me you are still with us.
As I watch the kids grow, something finally unlocks those buried memories. It’s as if my own time with you is projected, like an old movie, over what is happening in front of me.
I can’t find logic or words to explain it; all I can do is keep taking photos, carrying 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 is genetics. Perhaps the key I had been looking for was within me all along.
More memories return: the smell of fireworks, wicked glances after my mischief, the shield you became against mom’s scolding, the patience you had with my immature reactions.
I need to learn how to time-proof the few memories I have been able to resurface, bubble-wrap them together with these new ones so, in 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.
