The house belonged to my father (La casa era de mi padre)

I’m not sure if this poem has prompted a very distant memory or if my mind is playing tricks on me. Anyway, I think Dad managed to rebuild my grandfather’s old house for my grandma. I also fear that he had to sell it during times of recession in Colombia.

Tonight, as we approach Father’s Day weekend I want to dedicate this poem to my Dad. His poetry is the old house that I am rebuilding, in a language that he never learnt, not with my bare hands like grandpa did but with all the love I can give, a good online Spanish-English dictionary and my faith that his creation won’t get lost in translation.

Happy Father’s Day to all my friends with children out there!

From my Dad’s book Twilight theory (Teoría del crepúsculo).

The house belonged to my father (La casa era de mi padre)

With how much love I rebuilt the house

that my father raised with his own hands

surrounded by green birds

and an oblique sun over the terrace.

Paternal reference, today the siblings

know for sure that life goes by

when only memories of distant days

warm us up with their poor flame.

A patio with a burning sun. Midday

among wild flowers. Melody

of domestic golden robins.

And the parade of swallows,

noisy friends, the neighbours

of the last light of the afternoon.

Small town house, farm house,

white and pink and ash-coloured roof tiles.

Under rustic roofs the legend

shines through, the kindness of its ruin.

Memories, remembrances in the fine anecdote

of the old man who tells it,

feed their noble ghosts

fleeting shadow at the vespertine hour.

Against my heart I cut short the determination

of so many years chasing a dream,

reality that disperses itself.

The house belonged to my father and I do not forget it.

I had owned it with love and now I have lost it

but my father grows in my memories.