domingo, 11 de noviembre de 2012


I remember well the old Marcelino. While I'm standing in front of his grave my soul travels back to reconnect with him, typical seaman, port. He was always, ever since I met him in years, in shorts, sandals and old shirts, ungainly. Yes, always teaching, because he was unbuttoned all the time, his prominent belly-earned from a life of waste and rough fisherman tasks.
It was spoken by nature evil. His personality was rude to talk with him any more of a dialogue out loudly, at least on his part. Smoked after their unmistakable delicate smoked or Faritos, chatted with you if you were an adult or trying to scare you with his imposing presence. Why yes: despite its poor condition, seafarers, knew impose his presence wherever he was.
I met him by my grandparents. Do not know how I knew and I never thought to ask. Child in the end, I was afraid, it disappeared in my youth, and was displaced by an incredible respect. They had a place in the main square of the kiosk, which was fair view of the main facade of the city hall of the town. Sold scrapings from consciousness and had never abandoned the habit of opening in the evenings. Coastal town, people left at that time to take a walk to the huge park and sit around, preferably in the kiosk and ask one of the locals in a scraping or a drink or snack. There I saw him last. He had gone to the market, a block, to buy totopo and his pack of cigarettes. With his sullen, always talking directly, openly, it was only a matter of a greeting to me and took his place alongside the greatest, to chat for a while before climbing. I do not remember if I ever visit your home, but I imagine that if, at some point in one of many holidays that I spent there.
Back in those days just to those people that I met my first love, which also met the scorn and humiliation. Where we are treated to the capital as people are not well liked, even the name "chilangos" has a special flavor of contempt. However both civilization has come to criticize us eat them and now there is no difference in some neighborhoods of the place. And I learned that the old sea dog, the big man, the foul-mouthed Marcelino had died. Asleep. As sleep great men teach the world a bit of what they are. And while I am here, at the foot of his grave, and I well remember fondly, the old ...

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