So I embarked on my return to Santa Monica Pier. There was a group of young people, over a hundred, looking up at a building where musical instruments were laid out. There was apparently some artist who was supposed to perform there, but it was after 3 p.m. and I was not willing to wait it out, despite the palpable sense of excitement they exuded. So I started walking back north.
All this to try to keep my mind off somber matters, but as I drove home in silence (I was in no mood for listening to CDs), I still thought of my father. Let him go, let him go. He said goodbye to use that Saturday, two years ago. You have said goodbye since, many times, but it will be a lifetime ritual, I realize now. There is no end to the sense of remorse and regret.
Adiós, papá. Te quiero mucho. Feliz Día de los Padres mañana. Qué triste que haya coincidido la fecha con la llegada de tu partida.
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