Grandpa was gone as if by magic, without a sigh or just say goodbye, expelling its last breath parsimony or the stillness of being alone. His face had grown ghastly, gaunt and lifeless, like those marble gargoyles who watch the passer from the privileged heights, hidden eyes, wrapped after a heavy eyelids of old age. And yet, he still maintained expression of calmness that I always remembered.
grandfather was a strong man, solid as a rock and as crude as it may, though fervent Christian and indoor softie. There was also a great orator, a splendid talker, much given to long harangues and speeches full of a sweet language, hog, which seemed to grasp every last detail and regurgitating it as a verb or gravel flower more or less lucky.
Grandfather loved to tell stories. Having back-breaking in the fields, treading a fertile ground just gave him no more trouble, and after being properly groomed, he would go to the village tavern, a garage just chipped and soaked limes, where they met four or five old at that time were in the village. They smoked cigars chubby, very crude, that seemed sewed their lips as a gravity-defying perhaps absent and full of blackened and badly pressed strands that gave off a dense smoke, whitish, which ended up accumulating under the roof. At the same time, to alleviate the dryness that galled them the soft palate, the people of a small empty wine jugs thick, rich coffee grounds violet Fermin, the innkeeper, perpetrated in a contaminated barrels of rot. During fermentation, FermÃn tanks used to pour into thick strips of bacon, rancid and yellowing, which give the broth a creamy texture, a rich body, much appreciated by its neighbors.
The atmosphere in the bar was friendly, almost familiar, and there between curly spirals and fragrant and sweet and greasy aftertaste, my grandfather told her stories, substitute a boring radio or television nonexistent. Was elbowed in the wooden counter, next to the fridge where they lay the Coca colas, looked at his small audience-shrinking, "expelling a soft puff and started talking, fiddling endlessly worn lacquer fountain pen, which always accompanied him.
narratives were extensive, almost all without the end user, with that deep voice whispered, battered by coughing and spitting, which appeared to cause intense pain. I used to start them down the middle, as if the sources had no importance, distant, uttering lengthy circumlocutions, sometimes very confused, until he approached the conclusion. Once you reach that point, she paused, drank a sip of that came thick and blue, and murmured: "the end does not matter, it is sad, as always, and we are already old."
Then his friends smile. - When to expect the end? They asked, despite knowing the answer. Why? "He replied. I told you it's sad, and if I tell you, perhaps you can imagine a different one. "Then smiling all at once emptied the jugs and departed for home without saying goodbye.
And still, day after day, in a daily ceremony that soothed the sorrows of loneliness, the loneliness imposed by an absurd and unstoppable progress, which would eventually leave the village empty. And so day after day, between long days of digging and mowing, interspersed by those great moments of rest in which stories became the protagonist, and so day after day, friends and elders, gregarious man who loved to talk, who had resigned to know those sad endings.
Until they died.
One after the other, overcome by a life well lived, succumbing to years, while his friends less and less, growing old, continued to gather in this tavern in town to listen to my grandfather, plump and smoking those cigarettes drinking that wine oily and dark blue. Perhaps the imagination of these also succumbed, and those sad endings, ignored by the narrator, would not be replaced with more happy. Perhaps the hope had also died.
Finally, my grandfather was only in an empty town, full of memories. And his voice, coughs and phlegm battered, faded away, devoid of history and public orphan friends. Until he too succumbed. Perhaps he had come when, perhaps, no friends, no stories, only sad endings, no sense living.
Nestled in the coffin, my grandfather rested. Between his gnarled fingers, crooked from arthritis, low skeletal dome forming, this fountain was hiding, worn and peeling lacquer, which so often had witnessed the final say.
Perhaps she could whisper those happy endings, so often imagined by the friends of my grandfather. Perhaps some history might whisper.
grandfather was a strong man, solid as a rock and as crude as it may, though fervent Christian and indoor softie. There was also a great orator, a splendid talker, much given to long harangues and speeches full of a sweet language, hog, which seemed to grasp every last detail and regurgitating it as a verb or gravel flower more or less lucky.
Grandfather loved to tell stories. Having back-breaking in the fields, treading a fertile ground just gave him no more trouble, and after being properly groomed, he would go to the village tavern, a garage just chipped and soaked limes, where they met four or five old at that time were in the village. They smoked cigars chubby, very crude, that seemed sewed their lips as a gravity-defying perhaps absent and full of blackened and badly pressed strands that gave off a dense smoke, whitish, which ended up accumulating under the roof. At the same time, to alleviate the dryness that galled them the soft palate, the people of a small empty wine jugs thick, rich coffee grounds violet Fermin, the innkeeper, perpetrated in a contaminated barrels of rot. During fermentation, FermÃn tanks used to pour into thick strips of bacon, rancid and yellowing, which give the broth a creamy texture, a rich body, much appreciated by its neighbors.
The atmosphere in the bar was friendly, almost familiar, and there between curly spirals and fragrant and sweet and greasy aftertaste, my grandfather told her stories, substitute a boring radio or television nonexistent. Was elbowed in the wooden counter, next to the fridge where they lay the Coca colas, looked at his small audience-shrinking, "expelling a soft puff and started talking, fiddling endlessly worn lacquer fountain pen, which always accompanied him.
narratives were extensive, almost all without the end user, with that deep voice whispered, battered by coughing and spitting, which appeared to cause intense pain. I used to start them down the middle, as if the sources had no importance, distant, uttering lengthy circumlocutions, sometimes very confused, until he approached the conclusion. Once you reach that point, she paused, drank a sip of that came thick and blue, and murmured: "the end does not matter, it is sad, as always, and we are already old."
Then his friends smile. - When to expect the end? They asked, despite knowing the answer. Why? "He replied. I told you it's sad, and if I tell you, perhaps you can imagine a different one. "Then smiling all at once emptied the jugs and departed for home without saying goodbye.
And still, day after day, in a daily ceremony that soothed the sorrows of loneliness, the loneliness imposed by an absurd and unstoppable progress, which would eventually leave the village empty. And so day after day, between long days of digging and mowing, interspersed by those great moments of rest in which stories became the protagonist, and so day after day, friends and elders, gregarious man who loved to talk, who had resigned to know those sad endings.
Until they died.
One after the other, overcome by a life well lived, succumbing to years, while his friends less and less, growing old, continued to gather in this tavern in town to listen to my grandfather, plump and smoking those cigarettes drinking that wine oily and dark blue. Perhaps the imagination of these also succumbed, and those sad endings, ignored by the narrator, would not be replaced with more happy. Perhaps the hope had also died.
Finally, my grandfather was only in an empty town, full of memories. And his voice, coughs and phlegm battered, faded away, devoid of history and public orphan friends. Until he too succumbed. Perhaps he had come when, perhaps, no friends, no stories, only sad endings, no sense living.
Nestled in the coffin, my grandfather rested. Between his gnarled fingers, crooked from arthritis, low skeletal dome forming, this fountain was hiding, worn and peeling lacquer, which so often had witnessed the final say.
Perhaps she could whisper those happy endings, so often imagined by the friends of my grandfather. Perhaps some history might whisper.
