repeatedly during those terrible teenage years of insecurity, I wondered if I would have been better to have blue eyes and not my father's brown eyes my mom. I thought - naively so - that blue eyes would make me look more pleasant and I would open more doors in a society that was left easily seduced by appearances, for what was pleasing to the senses. It was not until I felt for the first time I was happily in love and happily matched that started to generate gratitude for my physical features and be comfortable with my short stature, with my head big, my big head and my chin prominent massive, also feeling a bit happy with my brown eyes.
few days ago I wrote on Twitter that eyes in which the aesthetic function prevails over the function would simply be representative or referential art, something beautiful but useless beyond its own beauty. The idea is not new: My dad was never quite right, his blue eyes convey all the sadness that has kept since childhood but always had to wear glasses and now, thanks to diabetic retinopathy, is almost completely blind. My
Dad was always concerned me something, build a company that could someday share and co-manage with my brothers and assuring a better future, a life less harsh than his own, something more valuable and constructive than just a physical trait such as color eyes. Administrative dirty tricks, changing market logic and the Colombian armed conflict took from them the company of the hands, to smoke the dreams he had built years ago, then hour am a man looking into myself those things I inherited from my father and although I have the color of your eyes or leave us company that wanted me and my brothers I can see it every time I look in the mirror.
My dad is in my gestures, the way I have to move my mouth to speak, in my sense of humor, eagerness to whom I have to laugh around me in my weakness for sweets, in my fervent admiration for the figure of women. My dad is in my sensibility, my love of music, in my melancholy Sunday, I love to read and - perhaps most importantly - my dad is in my voice. My father sings to me when I get on the stage, my dad plays guitar through my fingers, my dad love me when I fall, when it grieves me sing a song a woman as he was arriving home at midnight accompanied by string players letting go of my mom a batch of boleros in the room.
again in May came and my dad met 56 years. Instead of congratulating him on the phone I want to say another thing: "I do not need more inheritance, Dad, do not need anything else. On another level there is a body that reflects the soul and the things inside us, that other body of mine got your melancholy blue eyes. "
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