My father died two years ago today.
Since that day, members of my family have gained a certain perspective on the enormity of the man and his life. Of course, a big part of his enormity was trying to execute his estate, which we were finally able to do in late September.
But memories and mannerisms stick with me the most. To this day, I keep my shoes clean, but not shiny. I always carry a cloth handkerchief instead of a pack of tissues and/or a hand sanitizer.
One thing that few people got to know about him was that he was a person who was very much into fine art. He wrote poetry, almost to an ADD level, in his later years. Scraps of paper littered his room with poetry scribbled on them, in both English and Spanish.
He fancied himself a painter, and he was the kind of person who would take one of those “paint by number” kits from the 1960s and add his own flourishes and touches.
He couldn’t sing a lick, but loved a lot of musical genres: classical, opera, Spanish guitar music, and certain types of Puerto Rican popular song.
Part of that artistic bent has fallen on his decedents. My older brother is a good photographer. My niece is a good multimedia poet-artist. I have a nephew who is a budding cinematographer.My eldest brother sung opera in Europe and the U.S.
I like to think I’ve done pretty well in that vein, exploring the written word, aesthetics, dance, and music.
And it’s something I hope to continue.