A fit of laughter

I grew up in a Jesuit school and for this reason it was usual to prepare and/or participate in the church

services. I remember that once a friend and I had to write the petitions. We agreed that if I wrote them, she would read them. As it seemed a good idea to me, we did it.

The day of the mass, I passed her the paper on which I had written the petitions. When it was her turn she got stuck in one of the words. At first, I thought she had not understood my handwriting; but no, the truth is that in her second, third and other attempts, she still got stuck while reading... The sympathetic priest told her to pass on to the next one. When my friend finished reading, the priest added:  

Lord. listen to our requests and also please we ask you to enlighten us with reading.

I could not help having a fit of laughter and even more so when I saw that my friend also took it with humor. The truth is that this Mass was so prolonged because of the attacks of massive laughter.

The last look?

Logically, since my father passed away, I have not stopped thinking about what it implies or means and what death leaves behind. Being in the house where he had lived his last years, the inevitable was present: to see him in every corner, to await his arrival as not so long ago, to still feel his scent, to get his things together without feeling his absence, or embrace his clothes waiting for his affectionate hug back. His huge collection of Long Plays, as well as his books and plans, or his huge photographic records are the evidence of how he had grown in size and wisdom from childhood until his last days. Each one of his belongings told us who he was, and at the same time they seemed to deepen his absence.

When the spate of memories became unbearable, I naively left his home, to try to forget him. It was an impossible mission, because just as in his house, out of it there was also reason to see him. My father was a very active person, so every corner of the city of La Paz ​​was reason to remember him; his university where he lived and gave his best years, his office, the stadium where he lived as a true fan, his favorite restaurants, the Plaza Murillo where he would read the newspaper so many times or where he would have his shoes polished, churches in which his faith grew, shops where he bought his magazines, the record store, the school where he studied, the house where he was born and grew up ... Maybe what I am trying to explain seems crazy, but even seeing older or young people, was a reason to remember him ... I suppose that I am still unable to understand or accept his absence...it is not true that time heals all wounds!

The good thing about all this was that being with my mother and my brothers, living for a few days in the same house like when we were kids, we started remembering my father's way of being, anecdotes that my mind had already forgotten, his peculiar humor, and in the end, all of us could only see the good things about him. Obviously, there were some not so positive things; that being said, time showed us that my father did the right thing and / or the best he could.

I naively believed the Chinese proverb: eyes that see no heart, do not feel (out of sight, out of mind), so I thought that when I returned to Spain, that pain that my heart occupied in all this trance, would diminish; but on the contrary, I discovered that my dad is in me and it's hard for me to accept that the person who I loved a lot and who loved me most in this world... is no longer ...

Many say life goes on ... and that makes me depressed, because for me life is not the same anymore, at least right now, so I do not feel the same and of course I am not the same person. I can not hold back the tears coming to my eyes in the most unexpected places and situations.... I guess I am stuck with what they call sadness ...

Wednesday, 13rd December

Maybe this day is one of those that will remain so intact and painful in my memory at the same time. I remember that, as always, when I got up I saw my father´s picture, but this time I had a feeling; I'm not superstitious, but I thought this day would bring bad news ... Finally, when I got home around 11.20 I saw that I had a voice message .. My soul shuddered to see that the sender was my younger brother ... I thought, humm he almost never sends voice messages; something had happened ... and indeed, that message was the atomic bomb that just destroyed me on the inside.

The incredulity, the sadness, the rage and impotence took me over; yes, it's true my father´s health was very delicate, but how to accept that he was gone, how to accept his farewell, how to accept that I could never hug him again or tell him I love you, how ...

I remember how my mind almost stopped working, I could not figure out what to do, I immediately called my parents' house, my brothers, but nobody answered, maybe it was the time difference ... but no, they were in the middle of the sad task of the medical paperwork and the death certificates ... only with the help of my husband could I get the ticket for the longest and saddest flight I've ever had.

In less than 18 hours I stepped on Bolivian soil, and of course, how to forget all those occasions when my father waited for me at that airport; even then I missed his absence. The next thing happened so fast, seeing my family broken in pain, seeing his room and his things again, with a terrible silence, with a huge absence, dressing for the wake, and maybe the most terrible thing to see him without his vital energy, without hearing his strong voice.

But it was when I stroked his face, his hair and saying goodbye for the last time when I felt myself dying, when I felt that life no longer made sense; lo and behold, in a spontaneous way when his friends, people with whom he worked and shared a lifetime, began to give testimony to what he was, once again my father surprised me, that rock of leadership, that charisma, the ability to be the best friend and make friends, that headstrong and quixotic attitude of he who gave his life for what he believed, made me feel so proud and blessed to be his daughter.

Knowing that my dad marked the lives of so many people was the best farewell we could give him.