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My dear “Milk Bread”
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Ever since I was a child, I understood that life is fleeting, a passing, surprising thing. As I grew up, family and friends began to step off the boat too soon; I would never see them again. All that was left were the memories imprinted in photographs, which have worn away with time, and in our own recollections, which only grow hazier with each passing day.
But there is one person who also left that vessel, and her memory remains perfectly untouched, even after fifteen years of her absence. I can still catch the scent of the Chi-Chí perfume she loved so much, and sometimes, I can almost hear her say, “Daddy.” I feel the brush of her little hand, and it’s as if she’s taking mine. I talk with her as if she were right here beside me; I don’t hear her voice, but I know she is there.
My daughter, Sofía, passed away just days after her eleventh birthday. She had been fighting ever since that day in preschool when she fainted, bleeding from her nose and ears. It was six years of treatments that left her without fingernails or hair, tormented by bone marrow transplants that would remedy things for a couple of months, only for her to succumb once again to the leukemia.
As I’ve said before, Sofía —we lovingly called her 'Pan de Leche' ('milk bread'), for her soft, pale complexion— was a tender girl who, despite the grave illness she carried, always had a smile, a hug… a kiss for us.
When I look to the horizon and the magic of a rainbow appears, I picture her sliding down it like a slide, waving at me. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and share her stories with my son, Matthew. She will live on in my memory for as long as I remain on this boat, sailing whatever seas life has in store for me. Her memory is the greatest treasure I hold.
My dearest Sofía, a hug full of blessings, from the bottom of my heart.
Ever since I was a child, I understood that life is fleeting, a passing, surprising thing. As I grew up, family and friends began to step off the boat too soon; I would never see them again. All that was left were the memories imprinted in photographs, which have worn away with time, and in our own recollections, which only grow hazier with each passing day.
But there is one person who also left that vessel, and her memory remains perfectly untouched, even after fifteen years of her absence. I can still catch the scent of the Chi-Chí perfume she loved so much, and sometimes, I can almost hear her say, “Daddy.” I feel the brush of her little hand, and it’s as if she’s taking mine. I talk with her as if she were right here beside me; I don’t hear her voice, but I know she is there.
My daughter, Sofía, passed away just days after her eleventh birthday. She had been fighting ever since that day in preschool when she fainted, bleeding from her nose and ears. It was six years of treatments that left her without fingernails or hair, tormented by bone marrow transplants that would remedy things for a couple of months, only for her to succumb once again to the leukemia.
As I’ve said before, Sofía —we lovingly called her 'Pan de Leche' ('milk bread'), for her soft, pale complexion— was a tender girl who, despite the grave illness she carried, always had a smile, a hug… a kiss for us.
When I look to the horizon and the magic of a rainbow appears, I picture her sliding down it like a slide, waving at me. Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and share her stories with my son, Matthew. She will live on in my memory for as long as I remain on this boat, sailing whatever seas life has in store for me. Her memory is the greatest treasure I hold.
My dearest Sofía, a hug full of blessings, from the bottom of my heart.
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The Silver Bloggers Chronicles #14
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Cover of the initiative.
