The keepers of our stories
Three months after my first child was born, I found myself waiting at a gate to board a plane to Lima. I had received a phone call the night before. It was about my dad. He had just taken his last departure. As I struggled to go from point A to B, I desperately took notes of all the memories that came to my mind. He was gone, and the memories I had with him were all that I had left. I arrived in time for the funeral, and after four or five days, I went back home.
Once I returned to my new role as a father, it was hard to ignore the mix of joy and grief. On one hand, I was falling in love with my daughter, yet on the other, the pain of my dad’s passing pushed me to scuba dive into my memories, desperate to rescue more about him.
Time played its part, and when grief settled, a striking fact hit me; although my dad won’t meet my children, I couldn't help but recognize his facial expressions, moods, and reactions in the kids. As I watched the kids grow, they were able to make some memories resurface. It was as if what I had in front of me was a projection from my own time with my dad.
I kept photographing what unfolded in front of me without any intention to tell a story, but as if I were holding an internal dialogue with him: Look at them, Dad, I wish you could be with us!
Fatherhood became the extension of what I think my dad would do if he were with us—what he would say to them, how he would hug and protect all of us. They are the ones able to draw out the warmth he left inside me. In my head, his presence permeates our home, watching over us.
When I look at the kids, I can't help but feel the relief of bringing up old memories. Although they come and go like flashes, they briefly resurface to help me understand who I am, where I came from, where we are going, and my present as a mixed representation of reality and memories.
I can’t recall when this stopped being my story to become our stories. Inevitably, this has turned into an identity exercise, recognizing myself on both sides of the coin. Also, no matter how fragile my memory might be, I can prove I had a father who loved and treasured me…and for that, I am always grateful.
The exceptional moments with my own father were in the ordinary of our relationship, and because of that, those precious memories were doomed to be sunk in the ocean of my oblivion. If I can recall what I was expecting from him when I used to look at him, it’s because of the way I see my kids looking at me: a pair of big eyes seeking subtle complicity with an embracing smile that assured them I was there for them.
Overwhelmed by the fact that everything is in constant motion and change, I’ve found myself obsessed with protecting the few memories I have left.
Although the kids are no longer babies, I still want to protect them with all my strength. Similarly, I want to protect these new memories I have with them. I want to make them timeless, boundless.
