is a book so old and worn that the pages are put up just for them alone. And has no caps. It has been so used first by my mother and then me! I think it's an eternal book, no matter how old it is, however used to be.
In it there are recipes that, as I reread them, I remember my mother, my father, my sister, my youth and adolescence. I recall those winter evenings when I would see them and prepare for them fritters. My father became very happy because my father had a mouth sugar, just like me. Then we enjoyed eating donuts and playing to finding animal shapes of objects.
close my eyes. I hear the voice of my mother from the room was always stretched, it is simply watching TV with his dreamy gaze.
My mother always wore glad to see me, always asking me, always claiming that I was with her. My Lydia , said in a manner so endearing.
But I went, I went to great lengths to no more hear that voice full of loneliness and sadness.
cherish the cookbook. It's so old and worn that it would have to throw away and buy a new, unblemished, with caps, out of memory. What good is remembering? What use to travel in time, seize the time in this past that no longer exists? My parents are gone, and never again to make fritters. And never again hear the voice of my mother calling me.
But ... but them, I have the impression, still there, somewhere awaiting my arrival, waiting for me. And not only them but the house, objects, furniture, this cookbook. Everything is still there in the past, in this piece of memory, in this mental programming of my memory, waiting, quietly, my return.
But why? What good return on something that no longer exists, inconsistent, ephemeral and fleeting?
be that Proust was right: one returns in the past to understand. But understand what? Everything is said and done.
closed eyes I see myself in that kitchen, preparing a fritters that my father looked so excited. A child, innocent dream, full of joy I never knew look into it. I realize that during the time he and I were together on this journey called life, I never knew to see that enthusiasm and joy of my father to prepare the dumplings. Nor at other times.
My father smiles. Never could tell me he loved me, never could tell me he appreciated my presence, that I learned later, because there is something that teaches life and look at things from another perspective, and I never knew that illusion to see him, which aroused as a beating of wings, when he said: Papa! Come eat donuts! was a shy way of saying anything you do not know or could tell me.
From here, from this present, thanks to this cookbook, I can see her eyes again, her look tiny and very tender, very soft, and I can feel the joy I felt when I ate my donuts and said were great.
From here, from there, I can re-connect with my father, more than when we were together, much more than when we met and rabiábamos or where we were and I did not know whether out of fear, out of fear, misconceptions I had him. Today I can look in their eyes, these eyes so dark I never had the courage to look in the face, those eyes full of mystery, sweetness, paternity.
Ah, my father, my dear father ...
Suddenly I feel very happy and open my eyes and looked fondly at the old and worn cookbook. Perhaps prepare fritters today on this winter afternoon, gray and soft.
