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Today when I went to eat breakfast in the house,
I saw my dad sitting there.
He looked down. He looked sad.
I felt it.
I put my hands on his shoulders and asked,
“¿Estás bien?”
I tried to clown a little—tried to break the weight.
He said, “Yeah.”
But my mom, casual with a smile, said,
“No, he’s not. He’s sad.”
So I told him what I told her yesterday:
Even the ugly memories become beautiful in time.
Even sadness becomes nostalgia.
So don’t marry the feeling.
Just live through it, because it won’t stay.
And one day, you’ll look back,
and even the pain will have shape.
Even the silence will hum with meaning.
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I write from the garage—ghosts, streets, and quiet revolutions.
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