Today, Saturday, was the victim of one of the tricks that can be lower. My neighbor, friend, boss and great-grandmother Mirak (I am an adopted daughter and Fújur \u200b\u200bFújur \u200b\u200bis his grandson) told me: You have to pick up things from the press, shall we? Then we can go to the store of stamens.
As I heard the last word I did not think twice. Despite not having slept in record time I enlisted and went to my bosses headed for college. Once there, what was my surprise: no store would stamens, but a lot of work in my little office. No way, to work even half of the university is on vacation for a month to work on Saturday when no one pays me (we paid) overtime, when sometimes not even recognize our efforts. Needless to say I had beautiful silk fibers, cashmere and mohair in my hands.
In return, Mirak led me to a bar. Not just any bar. We went to a place that, in my mind, was a forbidden place, full of mysteries, but as imagined, I would reveal details of my origins, my roots: The bar is attending my father since I can remember.
often, almost daily, I have been through the canteen. I never dared to enter.
For the first time I crossed the swing and found a place that is unlike any other that I know: a neighborhood bar, with parishioners who have been known for a long time, people who call them by name or by his nickname , with the smell of urine near the bathroom with antique colored walls are accented by the gray light, daylight, cloudy or industrial city. A facility that looks like the meeting place of men in a small town-little-completely contrary to a restaurant in Condesa or cantinita coyoacanas. However, what matters is not the place, but it loomed as a site that does not belong to me (still not mine, and may that never happens).
I left there and went straight to tell my dad where I was. Do not know how I would react. I would not like the idea that his daughter invade that space. First she smiled, asked me what I took and what I ate, and then let go to tell many stories, small stories of the people he has met with a drink. Some heartwarming, others with terror and an occasional embarrassing for him. Listen as if I confide secrets gave joy to my soul. Finally confirmed what I sensed, but it still did not convince me: everything is narrative possibilities. It made me see the beauty of the impossibility, the beauty of imperfection, the beauty of all these anti-heroes that drunk or sober living stories deeper, more intense, that I read. He showed himself as antihero, and I always want to see is more people for their flaws than their virtues.
I just got stories stamens. Do not tell here. I prefer to reserve a room in my heart.
Mirak, I owe you one more.
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