Image © Jose & MidJourney
December is a happy sad month for me. My father and I were born in December, so was my daughter. But my father passed away in December, as well as a cousin who was like my second father, and no matter how many welcomed births I hear about in December, I am always melancholic and deep into my thoughts around this time of the year. For people that the New Year is not that important, passing away in December is just as sad as any other time, but I am very influenced by the prospect of another calendar year, and when people pass away in December it feels a bit like they were taken away just before they crossed the finish line.
My father was born in Portugal in 1920, he would have been 104 if he was still alive, this would place him among the oldest people alive. He left us 30 years ago, peacefully sitting in his sofa, listening to the radio on his earphones. He always said that, when it was time to leave, he would do so without making a fuss. When my mother noticed there was something wrong, it was already too late, I lived a block away, ran to see him being carried into the ambulance already deceased.
I remember my father a giant, probably like your memory of your own father. While he got shorter and weaker in his old age, my memory is stuck at probably 10, 12 years of age. My father emigrated to Angola in the fifties, from what I was told I was ‘fabricated’ in Angola and went on to be born in Mozambique in the 60’s, we lived in several parts of Africa till the 70’s, when we ended up in Portugal.
I have moved so many times in the last 30 years that all I carry around is a box of some of his things, odd stuff that would look like junk to anyone else, broken bits, notebooks half used, degraded wallets and documents, a few cassette tapes. I also have some precious and fragile items that I scanned, three letters of recommendation, one from Casa Ideal in Portugal dated 1949, another from Jomba Industrial in Angola dated 1960, a third from Mac-Mahon (The Coca-Cola Export Corporation) from Mozambique dated 1966. I was born into my father’s business of hospitality, he ran with my mother a Pensão (small hotel) in Mozambique, we then had restaurants, bakeries, coffee shops, and an assortment of related enterprises. They kept going until my father started losing his eyesight, and at that time I was formally expected to take over the business. I had already my design degree and I told my parents I really wanted a different life, I thought that their life was a very hard one, always working, especially when everyone else was on their vacation or having fun. I loved design and thought I could make a life of it, they understood, sold everything and came to live near me. Even though I decided not to pursue the hospitality business, I remember going through my life with apparent confidence because deep down I knew, if everything else failed, I could and still can serve tables and be good at it.
The memories I have of him are perhaps part of my imaginary, but there are still a few people around that corroborate. I remember a tanned, well shaved man, with some hair and bushy eyebrows, well-nourished as opposed to obese, with his thick black rim glasses, a glass of whisky mixed with carbonated water and a small container with salted cashews. He would be wearing shorts, with a balalaika with top buttons undone, socks up to his knees and impeccably shined shoes. He would generally be smiling, but I remember when he wasn’t, guests at the Pensão would complain that he used to beat me up as if I was two children, he used to counter by stating I misbehaved for two, I think he was right. I have my own memories and still older people around that remember how naughty and mischievous I was.
If you lost someone you love this December, join me in feeling a bit melancholic while focusing on all the good memories you have of them while they were alive. Recordar é viver.