Times of farewells

LONG-AWAITED REUNION Part 1

After so much time, we met again. Almost three years had passedsince that terrible afternoon. Of the ultimatum, of the final goodbye.

-  How have you been?- Henry asked in an automated voice devoid ofemotion.

 - Everything's fine, I suppose-I answered uncomfortably. 

- And you?

-  Everything's the same here, a lot of work, problems, the same as always,- he replied in alow voice. 

- If we're going to work together for a few days, let's try to stop hating each other- I saidin order to cut the obvious tension that the reunion caused in both of us. 

- We're on a truce, for now- he assured me with a grimace thatcould hardly be described as a smile- "I couldn't hate you even if I wanted to," he managed to stammerwith a smile full of complicity.

And when I heard that hoarse voice, having him in front of me again, laying my eyes on his, I was surprised to discover that everything in us was intact. It hurt me to see in his gaze scars imperceptible to other eyes. He had aged, numerous lines on his forehead and between his eyebrows adorned his face, he was visibly thinner, he looked worried and tired. Like someone returning from the battlefield with the stigmata of defeat tattooed on his body and soul. 

We took seats next to each other near a large window where the majestic mountain could be seen in the distance, framed by leafy trees with intense yellow leaves soaked in raindrops, imposingly separating the Caribbean Sea from the city. The perfectornament that shelters with its skirts and curves the inhabitants of this city so violentand chaotic, but at the same time so longed for by those who travel far away, called Caracas. Amongits dense branches a few macaws fluttered and landed majestically,happy, noisy, carefree. Tropical birds turned into a heritage for thecity and a cultural custom to offer sunflowers from their windows to entertainthe impolite guest.

Every evening, as a perfect complement, hundreds of them fill the blue sky with colors and sounds. A sort of perfect contrast, worthy of a postcard. The echo of their cries and their flashing plumage, with pieces of the colors of our national flag, seem to be, in the midst of the turbulent life of the city dwellers, a perennial reminder of the injustice of this dark episode in our recent history. 

Surrounded by this majestic landscape, we prepared to open the first of the numerous folders stacked on the imposing mahogany desk. Notebook and pen in hand, I set out to find some miraculous solution that would change the destiny of our legacy.Delving into the content of those papers that our parents, our partners and our friends, since before we were born, had specially selected, with the intention of making us change our minds. A series of fateful documents; accounts and projections that were not at all encouraging. 

There was a lot to review,assimilate and think about.

The most logical thing to do at this point was to sell; but Henry and I, unlike the rest,were against the idea, hoping to find formulas that would allow the company belonging to both families to continue to operate.We had little time before the final decision was made. One week,to be exact, the deadline stipulated with the potential buyers to maintain the offer. 

We both felt that to divest ourselves of the company would be to betray our history,the family work of a lifetime. As if the strong ties that united us all weregoing to disappear along with it.As I read each file I could not get my grandfather out of my mind, who neverthought of leaving the four streets of his town and came to this beautiful corner of Americawhen in a burst of hope he decided to seek greater economic possibilitiesfor himself and his family on the other side of the pond, obtaining more than he had dreamed of. 

Whatwould he think if we gave up this fight?How would you feel knowing that the materialization of your efforts would die along with the few freedoms left in the country?

 - Did you remove two moles?- Henry murmured, observing me carefully,suddenly breaking me from my thoughts. 

At that moment I had turned my back to try to reach another of the foldersthat rested on the desk. The question caught me off guard. I had my hairup in a messy bun, I was casually dressed in jeans torn at theknees and a white strappy shirt that left my neck and part of my back exposed, with a beaded necklace with acolorful medal .

-  Yes, they recommended that I remove all the moles I had on my back a fewmonths ago,- I told him, turning

- The truth is, I don't even know how many I had. 

-Eight,- he said  and placing my eyes on me.

-You had eight in total-he whispred as his gaze filled with nostalgia, moving every fiber of my being.