Words: a gift that will not break, stays on time and you can share it with anyone. So my father taught me, and I understand. So today, I dedicate this post, which talks about my journey in the world of letters, my father, D. Manuel Martín Mañani. Thank you for your support and encouragement, and put as many books as I can to not let me learn and dream.
When I was small, hide used for writing. He had discovered a different world, and magical secret that I wanted to share with anyone. I spent the morning on his knees in the corner, because I told him my notebook, and the story appeared feis monsters that took Dona Ines, the teacher, to tickle your feet until you get sick of laughter . A girl took away the pencil or braids I pulled my notebook to go! And there they put it in a tale where the court convened dungeons mice and punished girls who wore regular. Of course, my stories, I could also get, for example, to return to France the children of Carmen, the neighboring lot and looked after her to stop mourn.
The most beautiful story I wrote it to Harriet, a giant of a girl who had blue lips and bulging eyes. Nobody wanted to play with her, said it was very rare, if you opened your mouth in dreams, you got your finger to the bell, gave you kisses on the hands, you bite the sandwich and I followed her everywhere on the playground. One day he died. And I do not know where to let the story I wrote, I lifted the lid of his desk and stuffed it inside. In my story, Harriet's mother traveled with her to a beautiful country where there was a very nice hospital and a nurse with white outfits cure people. Harriet then left to die, he returned to school and all the girls wanted to be her friend.
And it happened that suddenly grew up: a complicated unprecedented adventure where my pencil lost his powers and where I realized that my stories were good for nothing: Henriette did not return, and the children of Carmen, either.
Then one afternoon, unbeknownst to me, spring is slipped inside me, opened their windows for light and came over me. His name was Sergio, was dark and his eyes really big butterflies in my stomach awoke. For him it was my first love poems, and second, and third, and an entire white-leaf notebook lock and key "that I kept under the mattress. For him all my sighs, my sleepless nights, my necklaces of words, my nightmares and my horizon.
"When your body
rests under the shade of a tree,
your breath would be closer
sigh."
And so, little by little, I was making room in this world of writing: a haven where you can learn to paint lie the truth.
My father must feel something, because he started giving me books: one came from his personal library, others bought specifically for me: "The Way" Wuthering Heights "" The Castaways "... He said that if I wanted to be a writer, the first thing I had to do was read. Read a lot and enjoy writing. My stories, then went from anonymity to share life with luxury readers: my father.
Until one day my father left. Is gone forever.
I knew that words, like angels, are neither truth nor lie, and they are there to serve us. I could not let my father who put so much effort that I discovered the secret. So, far from forgetting my writings or falter in the corners, I did was write a poem, a composition of lines that travel with him to eternity. In return, and this meant a surprise to me, he had left me another gift. I found it in a box along with other valuables, "Rhymes and Legends by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer. I opened the book at the point marked with a blue ribbon reading:
"I was the real Theobald de Montagut, Baron Forcastell. Noble and peasant, lord or commoner, whoever you are, you stop a moment to bode my grave, believe in God as I believe and beg for me. " BELIEVE IN GOD
(Cantiga Provence)
Since then, thanks to my father, not only believe in God also believe in signs, in magic and the amazing power of words.
...
Mercedes Martin Alfaya
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