Since 2004, my father had been diagnosed as a kidney patient and had started dialysis three times a week: Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. At less than 60 years old, my father, who until that moment had been the tree that gives shade and fruit, and we, his family who sat in his shade, rearranged our lives so that my father could cope with his illness in the least harsh way and feel accompanied. Everything was fine until September 2016. # That year, after a vacation on Margarita Island, I found my father sitting at home tired, sad, broken, wanting to 'throw in the towel': 'I can't take it anymore,' he told me, looking at his hands as if there were a button in them and he wanted to press it. # I don't remember what I said, but I do remember that I made my dad forget that fatigue or at least hide it, and a smile appeared on his face and then another, while I told him the anecdotes I had lived on the beach. What I didn't know was that that comment was the answer not only to his mood but also to a monster that was destroying him from the inside.

In September, dad started exhibiting a fever and although various tests were done, nothing abnormal appeared. Until later in the month, they found that he had a bacteria in the arteriovenous fistula, which was used for dialysis. By that time, the healthcare system in Venezuela was in critical condition, so we had to move to another state in the country just to have my dad operated on to remove the fistula and replace it with a new one. The operation and the purchase of the fistula cost us an 'arm and a leg', but we sold some things and managed to gather the money. # On September 25, 2016, we began our journey to Maturín. In the truck were my mom, my dad, one sister, my brother-in-law who was serving as the driver, and me. The first part of the journey was very bumpy: the scorching sun and heat made us stop several times to cool off. Then the rain came in the afternoon, a rain that raised a vapor and a swarm of mosquitoes that chased us like thirsty vampires. ...

After the operation, the doctor, in scientific terms, began to talk about the irreversible damage that bacteria had caused. I remember that despite the air conditioning in the room, I felt a strange heat and began to sweat and tremble with chills. At that moment, I also wanted to have a button in my hands and press it. # Upon returning from that trip, my dad seemed upbeat, despite all the aftermath of the operation and all the darkness he carried inside. Like a tree that has bravely faced the harshness of the weather, he remained upright, but withered, discolored: a fierce autumn had eroded his roots.

After a week in ICU, my father died on October 15 of that year. It rained a lot that day, and it was also very hot. However, a freezing cold petrified our faces in an exclamation that surely reached the sky. Due to a psychological, sentimental, or environmental phenomenon, winter arrived at my home and my family before December and lasted a long time, I don't know how long, I only know that when we wanted to hold on to that tree that had been my father and that had always been at the center of our existence, he was no longer there.

Since that day, I can't reach October without feeling like that tree that has lost its color, its leaves, and feeling the orphanhood that the cold brings. Remembering that long night in ICU and that despite everything, light always returns, even if it's faint.