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A daily run

My sister was born on my father’s 50th birthday, and they always had a special bond. Since she was able to walk she would greet him when he came home from work by running towards him. He would grab her and hug her.

I like seeing in this picture not just my mom behind the counter, but the Barbie camper I got as my Santa gift my first Christmas in America.

The night after my dad’s death

I’ve been lucky. Death, until now, has been clean for me. Literally.

Tonight I walked into my parents home, after the trip down south, and saw my father’s blood on the dining room floor. He bled to death last night.

I’m not sure how to deal with this.

I’m so soft. And maybe too self indulgent in my pain. There is privilege even in grief, until there isn’t.

Papi, quiero pensar que seguís estando tras la puerta cerrada de tu cuarto. Dormido, ahora, para encontrarnos a la mañana. Pero la sangre no me deja.

Mis cachorros

“Mis cachorros”. My puppies. That’s how my dad called us when we were little.

Some of my favorite memories of him was of watching TV with him in bed, him shirtless, belly down and us little and getting all over him. We all (well, my dad, my brother and I) liked those old b&w historical movies – Bible tales, Greek myths, medieval fantasies, all of them combined (I swear there were movies that included both Hercules and Samson).

My kids refuse to watch anything that’s b&w, they would recoil at movies like this. Maybe I can find them and force Mike to watch them with me.

My dad with the four of us, circa early 1990s

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