After a week full of work, Saturday arrived, the only day of rest, because on Sunday it was time to leave the statistics and put on the apron to wait on tables in a restaurant serving typical food from the plains region of the country.
It had been months since I had visited my girl's grandparents, who were left alone in the country after their only daughter and granddaughter left for Spain in search of a better quality of life, given the precarious situation of our nation.
The grandparents were well, in spite of the ailments and visual deficiencies typical of their age. I arrived in the afternoon loaded with a bag of sweet bread to share with the coffee that was already brewing. We sat in the living room to debrief each other on events since the last time we had seen each other, although we communicated frequently by phone to discuss specific matters.
It was impossible for the conversation not to stray to the absent women, so we moved to the backyard of the house to talk more comfortably while we sipped that cup of the precious black liquid.
What a time when, under that same mango tree, I shared with the family long before my baby was born; the same place where she received her baptism of water, and where many times I carried her while watering the plants and grass that still remain even though 17 years have passed since then.
I must confess that it was the happiest time in my life. I did not want to be separated from that creature even for a second, and the sidewalks and roads were practically worn out by so many turns I made carrying her stroller. The park of the urbanism was witness to her growth and how she became a child, while I watched her with rapt attention. How much beauty and love there was at that time. I never imagined that someday we would be separated, but fate had its own plans.
Grandma's voice that came in crescendo to my ears brought me back to reality, that harsh reality of three lonely old men clinging to the beautiful memories of a glorious past that will never return.
Today I am here in the baby's mother's house, but my soul does not want to be there or anywhere else, it only wants to be in that time when I was really happy.
Another weekend without you, my little Titi.
--Text of my authorship E.Rivera--
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Weekend-Engagement topics: WEEK 188
Posts must consist of 250+ words and you must use your own photos - no stock images.
What would you rather be doing instead of what you're actually doing this weekend and why? Remember to use your own photos.
All photos are by me.
This story was written in Spanish and translated into English with Deepl (version for free).