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the dreams of my father

It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized what a complex and interesting person my father was. He spoke 4 languages, was a voracious reader of philosophy, science and mathematics and before he died he was working on the notes for a book which would unite religious beliefs with his scientific ones.

We butted heads often as I grew up and his inability to sometimes relate on an emotional level perturbed me and forged a blockage to getting close to him. My mother, who was more grounded in the everyday, became my confidante but it was still my father, whose ideas I weighed and masticated over the years, who had the biggest impact on my ability to think. At one time during his last weeks he asked if I would not consider the priesthood and I bristled at him while stopping shy of being rude. He had entered the seminary himself at an early age only to reject the calling and eventually marry my mother. Perhaps there was some regret there, but I shall never know.

He was an enigma to me and yet I can understand him more as a I age and reflect on the things he would tell me. I hope that I will have the same impact on my son as he grows and begins to form an idea of how life and the universe can sometimes seem to conspire against us only to permit us a bright spot of convergence on the very next day.

My father was born in 1934, two years before the start of the Spanish civil war and he knew a harsh existence for much of his youth. It probably served him well towards forging the type of character that I grew to admire.

The older I get, the more I miss him.

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Madrid - 1935

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