Dad's Thursday

How to start? Where? Today I will try to write what I would never have liked to write about, or at least not so soon. They will be my most difficult words. Today, mom, allow me the license, this section, on this wall that is our showcase to the world, will not be yours but dad's. It will be your Thursday. It is gone. He has left us after several years living with an illness that gradually diminished him. These last few months, this damn 2020 that is not being good for anyone but has become a real nightmare for our family, was already very bad. His legs, those that beat the water of the Cantabrian Sea like no one else on his swimming journeys to the island of Carmen, in Luanco; who rushed like lightning from the back of the court to the net when a treacherous teammate dropped him in their marathon tennis matches at El Cristo; who danced cumbias or boleros like no one else, without stepping and leading their partner with mastery; those legs (beautiful, stylized, fibrous, always dark) stopped supporting him. Luisina, our dearest neighbor from the pharmacy across the street, an angel, left us the wheelchair that had belonged to her mother. And we, his girls, dedicated ourselves to driving him wherever he wanted. In the Department and in Indiana Pharmacy, the cafes under his house and where he loved to have a wine, a gin and tonic or vermouth, put access ramps and, although it was a deference to all his clients, dad made it his own and proudly boasted: "Look! “They have put a ramp for me.” There he felt like king and lord. Among their neighbors, those they have always had, and with that team that tended the bar, the living room or the terrace that became almost like a family, of what they loved each other. With us, at home and with the chair, he was not so benevolent. Difficult to drive down a long, narrow hallway full of lockers.

-Damn! You're going to leave the furniture... You're driving badly! he snapped.

Conversational, happy, dancing and talkative. That's how dad was. With that bearing. Tall, dark, like a paintbrush. Flirty and gallant with all women but proud as anyone of his girls, us, his clan. All four of them are curly and dark, like him. We couldn't deny our genes. Mom was his muse. “You look so pretty, flat,” he told her so many times while patting her butt. Me, his queen, the oldest, the one who swam with him, his dance partner. Vane, the princess, whom he called immediately when his cell phone failed or he didn't understand the controls on the TV, the one who solved everything for him. And Lu, his granddaughter, his little one, the one who dethroned us, the apple of his eye. The only one he walked, gave a bottle to, changed diapers and for whom he made the most incredible concession of his life: stepping on the sand of a beach. Maniac if ever there was one, he loved the sea but hated the sand. Always, always, he accessed the water from a rock or from the mouth of a port. He liked to sit for hours and hours in the sun, looking at the ocean lost in his thoughts, generally sitting on a rock that he accessed by swimming away from people, alone, to “ruminate” better and in peace.

Dad was a man of fixed habits. He found in routine a security that comforted him. Same restaurant, same table, same menu, same company. We teased him. His life passed between the El Cristo sports facilities, his second home; La Cala de Finestrat, in Alicante, where he spent the last 27 summers; La Vecilla, in León, where vacations were cycling, matches against neighboring towns, bathing in the Curueño River and games of brisca in the El Cruce bar, and his beloved Luanco, where he will rest, because my brother and Alfredo “El” rest there. "mute", whom he loved like another son, and where he swam every summer, rain or shine, with his crew, from El Gallo to Isla del Carmen. I accompanied them on a couple of occasions and felt like a mermaid guarded by sea lions. They knew the sea like the back of their hand. The currents, the tides, the rocks, the accesses. I would distinguish my father's stroke among thousands of swimmers. How proud I am that he transmitted to me his love for sports, for the sea, for sailing through the water. When I was little I would hold onto his waist and he would give his arms, always in front crawl, and I would beat my legs. When I was older, in La Cala, he invited me. “I'm going to the rocks, are you coming?” And we swam together, at the same time, making sure that I didn't hit a jellyfish, very typical of me. How safe I felt with my father at sea. What nonsense, how small the sea is. But I felt that way. Dad was my hero, I considered him invincible. Daddy was also a dancer. As a child, she taught me the steps of cumbia at the La Vecilla parties. I would climb at his feet and he would carry me. Over the years, we became the most successful dance couple at family weddings. Few men like to dance and even fewer know how to lead a woman. Without stomping, without sudden movements, with cadence, with delicacy, without losing the beat. And he was one of them. Oh, dad!

I write and it's hard for me to continue without getting emotional, there are so many memories, I'm going to miss it so much... But I want to continue. I want to remember it like this. With his vitality, his love for life, his smile, his stroke, his compass, his unconditional love, his integrity. I want to dedicate these words to him that I know he would love. Because he was flirtatious and he liked to be talked about, to be complimented. Because there was a lot of that too. He was a gallant and a gentleman. In the store, our beloved Antiguo Iriarte was the boss but he never picked up a broom. We did and undid and he came to visit. He would sit in my grandmother's chairs and chat with the clients, give them flowers or advise them. When the new clothing collections arrived, I would show the models. “Daddy, tomorrow afternoon I'm going to try on the new clothes. Low?". And he came and I tried it on and he told me. “That dress is very pretty, that one has a pleat there, on the back, I don't know, that one looks divine on you, I don't like that one, I love that one, but with those boots…” With bags he was a visionary, he sold them his entire life as a representative. Vane feared it, if he said that a model in the store “wasn't going to whistle”, he nailed it. I haven't talked about his love for soccer, for Sporting de Gijón, a team of which mom and he were members until last week, when I dropped them. Maybe because it is a sport that I don't like and that I didn't share with him. But let it be on the record. I prefer to talk about his passion, and we did share this, for tennis. He called me home. “Sandra, Nadal is playing on Teledeporte.” "Thank you daddy". And he from his house and I from mine, we watched the game and then, on the phone, we commented on the best plays. Excited, surrendering to the mastery and strength of the Mallorcan. We were not, however, good companions on the court. He, who was much better than me, taught me too much and I lost my patience and desire. But I spent, like him, many hours at El Cristo playing and watching him play.

Anyway. I'm going to put an end to this Thursday because it's costing me horrors. I think I fall short, that I don't do him justice, that I am not able to convey everything I felt for him, what he has meant to me and what his absence will cost me. I just wanted to thank all of you who have sent us messages and called us, and there are many of you. You cannot even imagine the strength, encouragement and affection that you have given us. Thanks from my heart. We imagined it but we were not aware of the number of people who loved dad. You have been here, in some way, with us. And, today, in this surreal situation, it means so much... Saying goodbye to the people you love in these circumstances, with this blessed coronavirus that has broken our lives, is very hard. Yesterday, at the funeral home, in a horrible ceremony, in a horrible room and in a horrible moment, my sister, my daughter and I said our final goodbyes. Mom did not want to attend and did very well. There were no hugs, there were no kisses, there was no wake, there were no flowers (I'm lying, my bike friends managed to sneak in a beautiful centerpiece, don't tell me how), there were no friends, there were no family members. His girls and him. How different from 26 years ago when we said goodbye to my brother, aged 28, among a crowd of people. At that time, Dad absolutely refused to leave the funeral home at night and stayed there, alone, in front of Juancho's coffin, standing, without crying, firm. “Come on, dad, let's go home, we have to rest. “You come back tomorrow,” I told him. “No, I'm staying here. I want to tell your brother the last time.” And there it stayed and my heart and spirit broke.

I broke down again yesterday when hugging and comforting my daughter, his “favorite granddaughter,” as he joked and she used to follow him, “Come on, Lilo! I'm your only granddaughter.” I hadn't seen him since March 13, to protect him from this damn virus. “I didn't give him one last hug, mom. "I didn't tell him enough how much I loved him," Lu cried inconsolably. There was no need, all you had to do was see them. They had true passion for each other.

And Vane, his little daughter, the one who took care of him these days to the point of exhaustion. Since January, he left his house to move into his parents' house. How much love, how much patience, how many inventions he designed to make their lives easier, how many times he had to retune the TV because Dad, who swore and swore that it wasn't him, touched some inconvenient button. Oh, my sister. How much I love you. Thank goodness I have you!

And mommy. Who has been crying every day for a year, fighting against time and trying to barely accept that the man of her life was slipping away from under her nose. And, despite everything, doing his best and wearing his best smile for these Thursdays with mom that have been so difficult for him lately.

-You don't think that this Thursday I'm going to be in the photo, do you? -No, mom. This Thursday is going to be dad's.

Mother. How different from dad and how much they have loved each other. Since they were 14 years together, which is nothing. We will take care of you, mommy. We will always be there. It is what you have formed, a united family, very passionate, all day close to each other.

Juancho and dad will finally be together and we stay here, very pine, trying to be strong to overcome this blow and to fight for that neighborhood store that my grandmother founded and that my father has left us as a legacy. Dad, the man we have loved the most. How hard it's going to be. We will always love you and you will live in us.