The March 19 at home always celebrate a birthday. We celebrate it even before we were born and I mirmana . It's the birthday of nearby . Born this day in 1970. It was the second particular my father. Before there was a hundred , with whom he began to come to the Sanabria in the mid-sixties, when he had already begun to ensure a certain future. However that Spain: discussing the other day with John the Minor at a lunch in the great social change in Spain, making Spain prior to the unrecognizable, is produced between 1950 and 1970. In those twenty years there is a cut above with Spain. Everything moves, and moves a large scale. Where before moving staff, now all rural Spain as does much of the population. Poor Castilla, which was never ever the same.
The fact is that we celebrate the cumpleños near, or grandfather, or "yellow limousine " as the kindly, named after a thousand years ago, my brother Toño.
The catorcetreinta , as she calls my father yet. The car that my memory is populated. Smell. Their seats. The rear bumper. Color. Your tuition, I remember perfectly. The car left the family until I became a teenager. The endless trips to Sanabria, stopping always in conference. The car he learned to drive. To use the starter. A not to cut again, or dead. A shift. The car took a couple of summers past eighteen, beautiful youth ... ah!
still there, now in storage. Start it, we pass the Iteuve and give it a spin to see that we have not forgotten him. And every year, on March 19, he approached me, I open the door with handle delicate, I am a pilot and I get behind the wheel, often without starting up, caress the gear lever, radio watch and probably useless, I open the glove compartment, I adjust the belt and let me snuggle for a while the atmosphere surrounding this old friend that we all grew older and sing, very quietly and with the voice I Francisco spending a happy birthday to me out of the depths of the soul ...
PS: Borges once wrote that poem ending " many things, / plates, thresholds, atlas, glasses, nails, / We will serve as unspoken slaves / blind and strangely stealthy! / will last beyond our forgetfulness, / do not ever know that id we or ".
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