All Posts Tagged ‘Love


Inheritance of love


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My parents lived one of the most exciting love stories I’ve ever heard of. They got married during the WWII. They had a baby, and almost immediately after that,  the war separated them.

My father was a prisoner, later a refugee and finally an exiled. My mom had to hide with the baby and later was persecuted because of her faith in a communist country. They spent twelve years trying to reunite again during which they suffered a lot.

All their attempts were a failures until 1956. But they loved each other so much that when they finally succeeded and met again, they were able to look at each other at the eyes without regrets, and continue their live together just as if they had said farewell the day before. And they continued loving each other like the first day till the end.

Dad, a writer, used to write poems to mom and surprise her with little gifts with no apparently reason. She was always smiling. Their friends and acquaintances say that my parents conveyed serenity and happiness. I think so too.

My dad passed away sixteen years ago. My mom just last August.

I miss them badly

They didn’t have material things to leave us as inheritance.

I would like to inherit their way of loving, so natural, so intense, so faithful.



Dancing from the back row

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I have never been good at dancing because I have a directionality problem, and I cannot tell right from left, up from down, and so on. My limbs coordination is almost null. My mom used to call me “my wind mill”, because my arms and legs were long and thin and they spread in all directions.

When I was small, in school, I remember one year we had to practice classic dance and perform in front of our families in the festival at the end of the year. I was very worried because I was unable to learn by heart any of the steps and the arms positions. I was doing exactly the contrary of what was supposed to do. When everybody were taking a step to the right I invariably took my left. My arms were always in the opposite side of the others.

My only hope was to be relegated to the back row of dancers and copy what the girl in front of me was doing. But because I was then one of the shortest of the class, they put me in the front row, with my tutu skirt and my dancing slippers. Very cute, but absolutely ridicule because of my awful performance.

A few days before the festival I fell down and hit my head pretty hard against the corner of a metal door. I ended with several stitches and a bandage in my forehead that covered my left eye. Not very decorative for the ballet. The teacher then decided to situate me in the back row of dancers and I sighed in relief.

The day of the festival I was able to copy the movements of the girl in front of me and do the entire choreography without visible errors. I remember that my brother congratulated me and told me that he noticed that I knew the choreography by heart and not like the other girls who were looking each other to do it well. I said nothing, but I thought how blind is the true fraternal love.





Here is my mom solving crosswords at her desk. She is 96. She has total paralysis in the left half of her body due to a brain stroke she suffered four years ago and she’s completely dependant, confined in her wheelchair, but his intelligence remains intact. Last Christmas, her present was a kindle. She had been complaining that it was difficult for her to read paper books because with only one hand was almost impossible keep the book open and turn the pages. with the electronic book, she can do it with a single finger. She switched without problems to the digital format and she’s reading mystery novels and other books.
But I admire her because she’s a survivor with a lot of inner strength who never gives up. She survived WWII, a hard Communist Regime, an unjust incarceration, twelve years of forced separation of her husband, exile and now this sickness. And she never have lost her smile. Be optimistic, kind and strong. Never give up. That’s my mom.




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Faraway, where my memories live, there is a small island with its shores bathed by crystalline waters. My boat seems to fly between the blue bright sky and the green bottom of the sea. He is waiting for me on the beach, smiling. Faraway, where my memories live, there is joy.
Now I’m stuck down here, in a dusty and dirty world filled with anguish, pain and death, trying to survive. But I have hope because I have known happiness and I know it’s possible, no matter what happens, when there is love.
I want to leave behind me joyful memories, like the ones I treasure, to spread hope
But I feel guilty, because when I see what’s happening in the world I get gloomy, and instead hope I convey sadness
Faraway, where my love is waiting for me, there are no tears.
Faraway where my love is waiting for me, there is peace



Thankful Love

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Ana opened the old notebook she found among her husband’s things. It was the older one of the eighteen notebooks handwritten he had kept carefully during all those years. Tight lines of his neat handwriting in faded blue ink were waiting for the rightful reader. He made it very clear that no one should read them before his death. Now was the time. After 56 years of marriage, she was mourning. He had left us quietly and peacefully. Like he had lived.
It was a diary, Ana knew it. It was about the hard years when he had to live an adventurous life as a prisoner, refugee and exiled, wandering across several countries, separated from his family. Everybody thought that in those diaries he, who was a good writer, had told the story of his adventures during the WWII and what happened after. We knew he had been sentenced to death, and a fellow journalist who was also a guerrilla member saved his life at the last second. We knew that he had escaped from the Italian fascists, who took him prisoner when he was very young, jumping from a ship to the sea, and swimming back to the nearest shore. We thought we would have lots of details of all those adventures in his writings.
But when Ana began to read, she realised that the adventures were all there but in a second plane.
The main topic of the diaries were tell to Ana how much he loved her every day they had had to live separated. Day by day during twelve years. He never failed to his daily date. Each day wrote about the love of his life. His only one.
No more tears.
“Thanks, Luka, You’re gone, but you’re keeping me company with your beautiful love words.”

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Grieving Night

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Dad with his pupils at the university

Dad with his pupils at the university

I didn’t want to get out of that room. I wanted to stay by him till the end. I loved him so much! Every second was precious for me. But all the others decided that I was the suitable person to accompany my mother home to have some rest. I kissed him in the forehead, fearing it would be my last and said: wait for me, dad. He had no strength to talk nor open his blue eyes, but he managed to smile. I left the hospital heartbroken. So many remembrances kept in that faint smile, so acute pain in the soul thinking in the approaching farewell. Mom and I went home and she managed to sleep because she was exhausted. At two am I the phone awakened me.

– Come immediately, he is dying.
I got up in a rush and called mom to tell her the we had to go to the hospital. She began to dress up and comb her hair and apply her lipstick, because she wanted to be pretty for my father even in the last instant. I began to get nervous, because we didn’t have time to lose.
– Mom, hurry up, please.
Finally we went out. I drove to the hospital. My mom got out from the car at the door, to arrive as soon as possible, and I continued to find a parking lot. I ran back to the hospital hoping to find my dad alive and having the opportunity to tell him goodby.
He, who almost was executed during WWII, and once thought his body would disappear, and his love, my mom, would never know how much he loved her, was dying at old age, in her bed, surrounded by his wife and children and accompanied by a priest, friend of the family. Far away from his homeland, that’s true, but embraced by love.
When I arrived to the room, he was looking with his blue eyes to my mom, their hands clasped. He had trouble breathing and had an oxygen mask. But it was useless, so the doctor removed it. I asked the priest to pray something, but he was too moved to utter a word.
– Netter pray you something in Croatian, he told me.
I began to repeat the Lord’s prayer and the Hail Mary, my dad’s favourites.
Little by little dad faded looking at mom, his only love of 56 years. When he stopped breathing I stopped praying, the tears overwhelming my voice.  The sadness was tremendous. But my soul was invaded by an overwhelming peace. I kissed again his forehead and told him: thank you dad.

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My soul is bleeding

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I’m awfully sad. My greatest love has been grossly publicly insulted and vexed. At the beginning I couldn’t believe what was happening. But it was true. And now I don’t know what to do to console him. Stand by him more than ever. He already has forgiven the perpetrators of that affront. For me is more difficult.  But who am I to keep rancour if he has decided to forgive? I’m trying to forgive too. I have to learn so much about forgiveness. The rancour brings bitterness. Forgiveness gives inner peace. That’s true.  But what remains after such an unjust attack is the moral pain. A deep pain in the soul. Yes, my soul is bleeding.


Fragile Tune


The world was in war. But he was young and he fell madly in love. His heart was full of sweetness. She was good, smart and beautiful. His first and only love. They knew that life during a war was uncertain. They knew about death, suffering, and destruction. He had been taken prisoner and almost killed recently. So they decided to get married as soon as possible and live together the precious moments they could share. They didn’t want to lose a moment no matter the difficulties. They were extremely poor and they had to endure together cold and hunger. But they were happy just to have each other.

He had a nice tenor voice and used to sing to her beautiful melodies; ancient love songs he had learnt from his father.

But their time together ended soon.

The war was stronger than them. At one point, they found themselves in opposite sides of a closed border. He couldn’t come back to his country, and she couldn’t go out with their small daughter. The war ended, the border got sealed and all hopes of a fast solution to their case vanished. He began a life in exile and tried with all his means to bring her out without success.

Everywhere he went he learned new love songs thinking on his forbidden and beloved wife. And he sang them when he was alone.

Twelve years passed till they finally got a permit for her to travel out of the country. He had left his daughter as a four months baby, and he met her as a thirteen years old girl in the family reunion in the Munich train station.

Now that they were together again, he could sing aloud to his only love the songs he had learned during all those years. She smiled. She always smiled.

Years passed and they grew old together. When his battered body couldn’t bear up any more, he had to go to the hospital, almost unable to move and talk, and never came back.


It was a gorgeous day. Warm and sunny. Sunday morning. I was with him at his bedside. He had his eyes closed. The TV monitor was on, and they were broadcasting a concert by the three tenors (Pavarotti, Domingo and Carreras). Luciano Pavarotti began to sing a Neapolitan song. “Non ti scordar di me” (Don’t forget about me). My dad said from his bed: “I know this song”.
He began to sing in Italian with his frail voice to me:

Don’t forget about me.
My life is tied to you
I love you more and more
In my dream you stay

Don’t forget about me
My life is tied to you
There’s always a nest
In my heart for you

Don’t forget about me

Don’t forget about me

It was one of the songs he learned in Italy for my mom fifty years ago when they didn’t know if they were going to get reunited again. But this time he was singing to me.

Don’t forget about me. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll never forget about you. My life is tied to you.

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Zany Bird


bird (1 of 1)

Tich used to go out of his nest every day to explore the world and get some food for hungry family. He worked hard to find worms here and there and fly back home on the lush tree next to the river. Three chicks with their peaks open were waiting for him. Always asking for more. Always the same routine. Go out, hunt, find worms and come back as soon as possible. And he was always dreaming on flying far away and sing like a canary. But he was a common wild bird, with a lot of responsibilities. A wife and three chicks! He couldn’t wait for the moment the chicks would learn how to fly.

Meanwhile, Tich was leaving the nest every day to do his duties, not after performing stunts for the delight of his children while singing, with his cracked voice, wonderful melodies he had learnt when he had approached the city, where the canaries lived. The chicks chirped amazed. Daddy, Daddy, do it again! And then, Tich would make for them an elegant loop or a frightening free drop. The kids were proud of their father. His wife was a little ashamed because there was a lot of buzz around about him and begged him to stop being so strange and behave like an average bird.

All the other birds of the tree thought Tich was mad. All that strange singing, his dangerous flights… They thought he was making a fool of himself and that he was setting a bad example for the youngsters.
But Tich enjoyed his way of life, and he began to go farther and farther looking for food. One day he arrived to the big park in the city. There were a lot of worms because the gardeners had changed all the flower beds for the summer and the soil was fresh and moist. There was an open space with a big statue in the middle. An ideal place to practice his flight stunts.

That day he found a lot of humans seated around the monument. Some of them had strange wooden and metal objects in their hands. And then he heard it. Symphonic music. He didn’t know, but the monument represented a famous tenor from the XIX century. It was his anniversary and his fans celebrated it with a little open air concert. Some musicians and singers were performing fragments of the opera “The Pearl Fishers” by Georges Bizet.  Tich flew to the top of the statue and listened mesmerised by the new sounds, eager to learn the new melodies.  A man was singing in french:

I think I still hear,
hidden under palm trees,
her voice soft and sound
like a song of wood pigeons…

Tich couldn’t understand the words, but he felt beauty and love. He didn’t know the humans envied the bird’s voices. He certainly liked that human music. And began to sing out of happiness. He tried the new melody and oh wonder! His voice was not cracked any more. His trill flowed clear, musical and full of wonderful harmonies.

Since then, Tich, the crazy, wild bird from the tree by the river, flew every day to the park, and sang the romantic song he learned on that very spot. Humans taking a walk used to stop to listen to him.
This is not a common bird, they thought, and tried to spot him. They were looking for some rare creature and didn’t pay attention on him, perched in a branch nearby.

He looked very common. But he wasn’t. He had become a great singer. Like the man in the statue.


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Delightful Dance



She was the prettiest in the neighbourhood. With her blonde hair, her blue eyes and her graceful figure. But she was very shy. She had a demanding mom, who was very aware of the social conventions and didn’t let her go out with boys. She had to come back home straight after school and learn to sew and embroider and things like that, useful for a future lady of her home, according to her mother. But she dreamed awake that one day she would escape and meet her charming prince, the love of her life, like Cinderella.

When she was eighteen and her city was in the middle of the Fiesta of San Fermin, she went out with her father to the street with a white dress and a red bandana. There was joy, music and people dancing everywhere. Right there in front of her house in the old city of Pamplona, a handsome young man, also dressed in white with his red bandana, without telling a word, took her for her waist and began to dance with her. Her father smiled and said nothing. They danced and danced at the sound of the trumpets and trombones. They laughed and talked and he said she was the prettiest and smartest girl he had met.

He was her only love. They lived together 53 years. Each year, the day of San Fermin, they always went to the same corner to dance at the sound of the street music. Seven years ago he passed away, and she went to a nursing home. From then, San Fermin day, was for her a sad and gloomy day, remembering her lost prince, and she remained in her room, while others were celebrating the Fiesta.

This year, she decided to make a nostalgic walk. When the nurses were no aware, she took her cane, escaped, and went all dressed in white with a red bandana towards the old city of Pamplona. The streets over there were full of people celebrating the Fiesta. It was difficult going thru to reach her narrow street and her beloved corner. When she arrived she almost began to cry. A small band was playing dance music just there. With tears in her eyes she began to follow the rhythm of this with her feet. Suddenly a young man took her and began to dance with her. She let him do, and danced laughing and crying at the same time. Oh my prince! Are you seeing me?

Title taken from the  Topic generator.

Nothin’ But A Good Time.


I think I wrote this before

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Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.

Ana is a young girl full of joy, energy and hope. She has a boyfriend she adores but the WWII truncates her happiness when her boyfriend, who is a known independent journalist, disappears after an attempt against a train. He spends months in a concentration camp but manage to escape. He comes back like a living skeleton, but alive. Once reunited they decide to get married as soon as possible because they don’t know if they will live enough to enjoy their life together. The war worsens. Ana gives birth to her first child. A baby girl. With the turmoil of the last days of the war they get separated again and this time their love is harshly tested.

Coming To a Bookshelf Near You.



Love and War


Write a review of your life — or the life of someone close to you — as if it were a movie or a book.

A young woman gets married with an independent journalist in Zagreb in the middle of the WWII. For months before the end of the war she gives birth to a baby girl. When the war is about to finish the communists are approaching her city. Her husband, who has been persecuted by the fascists and by the communists because of his work as a journalist, find out that he is in the list of people to be executed by the militias of the communists. She advices him to go out of the country for a while until the situation calms down. But then the borders get closed and they get separated. He begins a pilgrimage from a refugee camp to another, and she tries to survive alone with her daughter in the new Yugoslavia, with the secret police after her trying to figure out where is her husband.

Four Stars.



Top Ten: The Prompt


Since my mom got sick three years ago and has required all my attention, I’ve felt unable to set other priorities. It’s strange how a life can change completely from an instant to another. I used to have a great variety of interests and activities. Now, she occupies my mind and my time. These days I’m worried because she is suffering and her mood is low. I’m doing everything in my power to give her a better quality of life. She loves to see me happy and smiling, so I have to hide my emotions and don’t show my worry in front of her. She likes to see me well dressed, so I try to take care of my appearance. She likes to receive new things, so I buy on-line things for me and for her always in her mailing address, so she can see the packages and enjoy when we open them (she can’t open them because is paralytic). Above all, she loves to know I’m around. I’m not too talkative, but she doesn’t mind. All she cares is to know I’m there. She says likes being with me because I’m quiet and that gives her peace. She gives me peace too. And she knows how to show me her love, with thousands of little things, like when she caress delicately my hair with the only hand she can move while I’m kneeling to put on her slippers.
So I have no longer a top ten list. Not for now. My top list is only of one.

Top Ten: The Prompt.



Almost every day

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When was the last time someone told you they were proud of you?

A few hours ago. My mom always find some reason to tell me she’s proud of me. This time was because she says I’m the best at the task of transfer her from the bed to the wheelchair and from the wheelchair to the armchair.

I try to do it gently and calmly so she stays as comfortable and serene as possible during those transfers always complicated.

It’s something I do constantly. It was as if she were telling me she was proud of me for telling good morning each day. She caressed my hair while telling me how proud was of me when I was kneeling, lacing her shoes. One of those little moments I wouldn’t change for anything in this world.




Those little things

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You have to write a message to someone dear to you, telling that person how much he/she means to you. However — instead of words, you can only use 5-10 objects to convey your emotions. Which objects do you choose, and what do they mean

Who knows? A cup of hot coffee, a picture, an unexpected little gift, a plane ticket to travel to Croatia… The key is not the object, but the love behind each thing, big or little, we give to the person we love. There Is a song I like by a Spanish singer named Joan Manuel Serrat, that came to my mind immediately when I saw the topic of today’s prompt. Here is my translation. Is called Those Little Things.

One believes
that time and absence
killed them
But their train took
round trip tickets
They are those little things
that left us
a time of roses
in a corner,
in a piece of paper
or in a drawer.
Just like a thief
they are lurking us
behind the door
They have us so at their mercy,
as dead leaves ,
that the wind drags here and there.
They smile sadly at you and…
they make us that
we cry when nobody see us

The Language of Things.



Love Teacher


You can choose any person from history to teach you any topic you want. Who’s your teacher, and what do they teach you?

This one is easy: Jesus of Nazareth is my dream teacher. I would ask Him to  teach me how to love God and my neighbour sincerely and in an effectively  way and how to be a better person every day in the middle of my circumstances and the problems of current life. I would ask Him to teach me to solve  each of my existential doubts and troubles. But most important of all what I already said: I would ask Him to teach me how to love others as they need to be loved.

Dream Teacher.



Dinner is ready!


What is the one word or phrase that immediately cheers you up when you hear it?

Dinner is ready! That means I didn’t have to do it. That I had time to relax for a while and do whatever I wanted without worries. I’m not a great cook and for me the kitchen is a stressful place. So I’m a happy camper when somebody comes to me with the offer to prepare a meal, and usually the outcome is pretty good.
Seriously, there are other words that really cheer me up and make me smile instantly every day: words of love that belong to my private life and I’m not going to reproduce them here.

Pick Me Up.





In Reason to Believe,, Bruce Springsteen sings, At the end of every hard-earned day / people find some reason to believe. What’s your reason to believe?

My parents had a very difficult life during WWII and after, under a communist regime. They had to endure unjust imprisonment, twelve years of forced separation, and the killing of some of some of their relatives. When they were separated they decided to say every day at the same hour the rosary praying each for the other and so they did during twelve years. So when finally they reunited they said it was like they had been spiritually together all the time. They didn’t have problems to restart their life in common. They were so in love like twelve years before.

I learned from them to believe in the hard times and in the easy times. They didn’t impose to us. Later, I searched and studied to base my faith in knowledge and reason and not only in sentiment or a blind obedience. I found my faith reasonable. I found mostly God in the wonders of nature and all the good things the man is capable of. But above all in love. Besides love is the reason I keep struggling in this life of mine. So I would say love is the reason because I believe.

 Reason to Believe.



Thank you


What was it that drew you to your significant other? Their blue eyes? Their ginger countenance? Their smile? Their voice?

I promised not to write about us in this blog. It’s too public to talk about such a private things. I only would say that

You’ve been so good for me that I could not resist.
Was your immense kindness which attracted me as the magnet to the iron.
I only answered to your call. Your irresistible call.
You’ve never failed me. In joyful moments, in sad moments, you were always there for me.
I had the immense luck to have find you. Thank You for electing me. Thank you for all these years.

He’s (She’s) So Fine.




Who is the person in your life who can do no wrong? Describe this person and tell us why you hold them in such high esteem.

I’m not sure I would like a human person who can do no wrong. A perfect person? Insufferable. I need a human been like me who can understand me because he or she can make mistakes and knows what does mean to ask for forgiveness. I need people who can say I’ve been down there like you and I survived. I got up again, and again. Just like you. You’re not a monster because of your mistakes. You’re just human.

I don’t need perfection. I need love. So my precious ones are my loved ones. Not perfect but the best I can imagine. I love them so much I can’t imagine my life without them. But I love them as they are.  Not perfect. my ideal of love is the one St. Paul describes I his epistle to the Corinthians:

Love is patient,

love is kind and is not jealous;

love does not brag and is not arrogant,

does not act unbecomingly;

it does not seek its own,

is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered,

does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth;

bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails

Daily Prompt: My Precious


My parents


Your personal sculptor is carving a person, thing, or event from the last month of your life into the glistening marble of immortality. What’s the statue and what makes it so significant?

A personal sculptor? what an idea! Even you are extremely rich and pretentious to have one or you think something in your life is worth being immortalized. None of the above applies to me.

The last month of my life I have taken care of my mother. A remarkable, courageous, good, very old and sick woman. She had a very hard life plenty of adventures in her youth during the WWII and after that under communist prosecution. She had to struggle a lot to endure a forced separation from her husband for 12 years. She was faithful and they reunited. Then she raised a family with five children. That makes me think that if I really have to commission a sculpture would be one of my parents.

And why of my parents and not just my mother? Because the life of both my parents was impressive in the extraordinary and ordinary circumstances of their life. Because they loved each so much, they cannot be apart from each other a single day. When they were forcibly separated in their youth and they finally could establish some contact by clandestine mail my father propose to my mother to pray each day at the same hour the Rosary for each other. And they did. For all those years they knew each day they were at the same time praying together despite being physically separated. When they reunited they were able to live together without problems after such a long separation because of that union in prayer, they said.

After that, when they restarted the family life, they never separated again. They loved each other so much. They taught us to love. My dad passed away long time ago. My mom talk to him every day and hopes to meet him in heaven where there will be no more good byes and they will be together for the eternity.

It would be cruel to separate them in a statue. And besides, I miss see them together so much! This is why I would commission a statue of my parents, young and happy, waking together as they used to do.

Daily Prompt: Michelangelo’s YOU.
More statue posts on the next page:


Because she’s mine


IMG_0330Write a six-word story about what you think the future holds for you, and then expand on it in a post.

I’ll be there for Mom

It’s my turn. She has always been there for me. When I was little, of course, as a loving mother of five. I was the middle child. Number three. But I felt unique. Even when my baby sister Ana Maria would stay at home and we all go to school. When we arrived back home we used to rush to kiss Mom and Ana Maria, very angry wouldn’t let us yelling: She’s mine! Even then I knew she was mine as much as hers.

She was all mine when I had my terrible migraines. The pain was so terrible I wanted to pull out my left eyeball. I thought with my kid’s logic that without the eye the pain would disappear. She stayed with me for hours holding my hands and caressing me, promising me it would pass. And her promises always became true.

She was all mine despite she was always busy working at home. I firmly believed she had eyes in her back, because she managed to pay attention to what I was doing playing around her while she was cooking or ironing.

She was all mine when I needed her to talk about “my stuff” as a girl and my problems as a young woman. She knew about my friends, my first job, my first love, about my hopes, my joys and my sorrows. She was always there for me. In the good times and the bad times. Always with her warm smile, her peaceful black eyes glancing at me. Waiting for me.

Now she needs me. She’s 93 and she’s paralyzed. I’m so sad seeing her in that condition and watching her suffering. But I’m also so glad I can do something for her; easy her pain in some way as she did with me when I was little and I was in bed with migraines. Only I can’t promise her it will pass and she knows. My immediate future consists in taking care of her, being there for her, because she’s all mine. She continues smiling and looking peacefully at me. Every little service I give her is an opportunity to show her my love and tell her “thank you for your life”.

Daily Prompt: Six of One, Half a Dozen of the Other.

Great posts by other bloggers in the next page:


No living actors for mom and dad


Cast the movie of your life.

The movie of my life? Oh my! what a disaster. But if you insist:

I would chose Sandra Bullock as me


Jack Nicholson as my boss

UnknownAnne Hattaway as my best friend

220px-AnneHathawayJan10and Dianne Keaton as my older sister.

220px-Diane_Keaton_by_Firooz_ZahediI couldn’t find among the living actors and actresses who to portrait my dad and my mom and is a pity because their life is worth to tell in a movie. A life plenty of adventures from the moment they met each other during WWII and get married. With a lot of suffering ( prison, prosecution, 12 years of forced separation ) and  a happy ending. They loved each other so much they were faithful until they get reunited. They were together until my dad died after 56 years of marriage.

I witnessed their love and I can tell you it was impressive. I remember one day, when my dad was in wheelchair almost unable to move and talk.  He asked me to go out. He wouldn’t tell me where. Only “to the city”. I always did what he wanted, so I got ready. It was complicated because my car was small, but there we went. He gave me directions and finally we arrived to a boutique he new my mom liked. I parked, unfolded the chair, helped my dad to sit in, we entered the perfume boutique and he simply said to the lady: “please, give me the best you have for my wife”. Her birthday was coming. He could send me to buy something to mom, and stay at home, but as sick as he was, he wanted to go by himself to buy the best gift for his wife.

Daily Prompt: Ready for Your Close-up.
More bloggers’ movies in the next page:


Fighting hate


“…He is about my age. His eyes are cold when he looks at me and barks me orders. But sometimes I can see he is tired and sometimes even scared. Who knows what happened to him to make him take the weapons and hit the mountains. Who knows why he is so harsh. I’m praying for all of us. And for my beloved, my only one, Ana. She doesn’t know if I’m dead or alive…”

I was reading my father’s diary from when he was a prisoner of the communists in a concentration camp, talking about one of his guards transporting him and others through the mountains from one camp to another. He was trying to understand his captors, forgiving them and praying for them at the same time all that was taking place!.

My father wouldn’t let us read his diaries when he was alive, so I was reading this when he was already dead and that struck me in so many ways. I found myself thinking on how sensible soul was my dad’s and how far away I was from that level of faith. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us… He really lived  what he prayed every day. He suffered a lot. The killing of two of his brothers, the forced separation from his wife, being imprisoned, almost executed once, forced to leave his homeland, and forgiving, always forgiving.

And that was not easy for him. Several years before in a televised interview about his life the interviewer asked him if he hated someone from those days. He answered:

“from then I lived every day of my life fighting hate”.

He taught me so many things in my life and now that he is gone he is still my guide.

Daily Prompt: In Good Faith.