Correteabas entre piedras aquel Morro. Tus cachetes, muy rojizos por el frío, competían con el color de las rosas que mi abuela cultivaba. Tejió tus ruanas y preciosas alpargatas, para que dieras rienda suelta a tus antojos, y retozaras sobre la hierba y frailejones que colmaban las montañas y los prados, de aquel magnífico espectáculo natural.
Te ponías tu ruana y tu sombrero, para salir al campo y disfrutar las heladas tardes de junio, cuando caían copos de nieve tímidamente sobre el techo de tu casa construida con barro y pasto seco. Era hermosa y limpia, sus pisos de tierra barridos con la mata de escoba amarga, y un palo de Guayaba que ella fabricaba con sus manitas curtidas por la faena del campo.
Tu desayuno, aquellas arepitas de trigo delgaditas y redondas como la luna, rellenas con el queso de las cabras que tenían en el campo. Preparaba la sopita andina, esa que llaman pizca de la cual hablabas orgulloso. Y las papas, ¡Ay tus papás!, eran tus favoritas; corrías a cosechar para comerlas en un sabrosito guiso de gallina del corral, acompañado de un buen jugo de panela, también casero, extraído del zumo de la caña allí sembrada.
Destilabas con mi abuelo, el miche andino, licor tradicional con sabor a campo, a hierbas de ajenjo. ¡Esas plantas me huelen a ti!, mi amado padre. Desde muy joven, solías tomarlo para apaciguar el frío tan perenne como tus nevados. Así te levantaste papá, sorteando montañas, cultivando frutos y yerbas, disfrutando del hermoso y puro aire merideño.
Bajabas al pueblo a aprender, de hecho, tu caligrafía era hermosa, sus trazos eran casi perfectos. Eras muy inteligente. Aprendiste Historia de Venezuela y Universal. Eras todo un letrado, además de matemático. Y pensar, que tan solo tenías ¡sexto grado de primaria!
Te hiciste hombre y saliste en busca de un nuevo porvenir. Caminaste Estado por Estado, hacienda tras hacienda, trabajando sin descanso, hasta llegar a tu meta ¡La Gran Ciudad, Caracas! Allí conociste al gran amor de tu vida. La mujer más hermosa de la ciudad. Formaste una gran familia, fuimos seis hijos a quienes siempre advertías, “Estudien porque esa será la única herencia que tendrán de mí”
Levantaste a seis criaturas, junto a la mujer que elegiste como merecías y ella a ti por más de 60 años. ¿Sabes? Nos dejaste ya crecidos y en sus manos. Hoy la cuidamos como siempre nos pediste.
¡Lo hiciste muy bien!, descansa papi, descansa.
Esto te lo debía.
You used to run among the stones of that Morro. Your cheeks, very reddish from the cold, competed with the color of the roses that my grandmother grew. She wove your ruanas and precious espadrilles, so that you could give free rein to your whims, and frolic on the grass and frailejones that filled the mountains and meadows of that magnificent natural spectacle.
You put on your ruana and your hat, to go out to the countryside and enjoy the freezing June afternoons, when snowflakes fell timidly on the roof of your house built with mud and dry grass. It was beautiful and clean, its dirt floors swept with the bitter broom bush, and a guava stick that she made with her little hands tanned by the work in the fields.
Your breakfast, those arepitas of wheat, thin and round as the moon, filled with cheese from the goats they had in the field. I would prepare the Andean soup, the one they call pizca, of which you spoke proudly. And the potatoes, oh your parents, were your favorite; you ran to harvest them to eat them in a tasty chicken stew from the farmyard, accompanied by a good panela juice, also homemade, extracted from the juice of the sugar cane planted there.
You used to distill with my grandfather, the Andean miche, a traditional liqueur with the flavor of the countryside, of wormwood herbs, those plants smell like you, my beloved father. Since you were very young, you used to drink it to soothe the cold as perennial as your snowy mountains. That's how you got up, Dad, climbing mountains, growing fruits and herbs, enjoying the beautiful and pure Merida air.
You used to go down to the village to learn, in fact, your calligraphy was beautiful, your strokes were almost perfect. You were very intelligent. You learned Venezuelan and Universal History. You were very well read, as well as a mathematician. And to think that you were only in the sixth grade!
You became a man and went out in search of a new future. You walked from State to State, farm after farm, working tirelessly, until you reached your goal, the Great City, Caracas! There you met the great love of your life. The most beautiful woman in the city. You formed a big family, we were six children to whom you always warned, "Study because that will be the only inheritance you will have from me".
You raised six children, together with the woman you chose as you deserved and she you for more than 60 years. You know, you left us already grown up and in her hands. Today we take care of her as you always asked us to.
You did very well, rest daddy, rest.
I owed you this.
Agradezco a Writing Club, por la oportunidad que ofrecen a quienes nos apasiona escribir contenidos literarios.
I thank Writing Club, for the opportunity they offer to those of us who are passionate about writing literary content.