WRITING TOPIC
Remembered
What would you like to be remembered for? Explain in a post of 300+ words using photos you took personally where possible
When I saw this topic of how I would like to be remembered, I immediately thought about my obituary, who would write it, what my achievements would have been and my adventures to tell. I only have one daughter, so I wrote it imagining what she could say about me and how I would like her to remember me...
This Monday, like every Monday for 80 years, Kar set out to review the photographs she had taken over the weekend, but not before drinking a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, her favorite. He looked at each image carefully, that day he was a little longer than usual, then he lay down on the sofa to rest where he fell asleep. He did not wake up again.
Kar is survived by her daughter and grandchildren, who remember her fondly. His only daughter has written this obituary to highlight his life:
I have hundreds of stories to tell about my mom. One of the first memories he keeps is the phrase he always used to say before leaving home or dropping me off at school, "I live in your heart and you live in mine. Even if you can't see me, I'm always with you." Even when I was an adult, he kept saying it to me, I think it was his way of apologizing for how hard the first years after my birth were, all the time that I spent being separated because of his work, everything he did so that we could be together. safe and calm.
I always knew that my mom went through something difficult, something that tore her apart, and changed the way we lived. Until one day he got tired, said enough, raised his arms and began to row through a heavy sea, without knowing very well where he was going, he set off on a wonderful journey. One of the things that made her most proud was having created the Frida Foundation, to help women victims of domestic violence with legal advice and training so that they can become financially independent. She ran into several obstacles while creating it, several times the financial support was not on her side, but nobody expected that she would return to the university to start studying law and be able to personally give free advice with the empathy and respect that she would have liked. receive herself in her difficult moments.
I always liked the way she explained to me what had happened with the person with whom she created me, I called her genetic material, mom made a strange face that looked like a smile when she heard me say it. Although she chose not to give me specific details, I always knew the truth, her sincerity was our strength and my teaching. I saw her cry a few times, really few times knowing what she had been through, but I can sum up my mother's resilience with something we did together. We traveled to Japan with the excuse of taking photos, we stayed longer than we had planned, she enrolled me in Japanese classes while she enrolled in a special ¨Kintsugi¨ course, a precious hundred-year-old Japanese technique where ceramic pieces are repaired broken, instead of doing everything possible so that the joints are not noticed, the parts are joined using gold powder and liquid silver as glue, in this way they stand out. The philosophy of this technique proposes that each little piece that was joined and repaired is also a part of the object's history, that these ties should not be hidden, on the contrary, they should be highlighted, embellishing it even more, thus showing its transformation and of course, its history.
Ever since she saw a person repairing a cup in this way, my mother felt deeply identified, she explained to me that this is how we should handle our wounds, transform the scar with beauty and in this way be able to tell our repaired and healed story. Our trip to Japan was very important for both of us. Although there was an act of healing in all this, we also had a very fun time, one day we went for a walk in a town near Tokyo, she bought beautiful ceramic mugs, a couple of jugs and a perfect trunk. Upon arriving at the house, he took it out very carefully, and threw them against the floor, I was undaunted. She calmly told me, ¨daughter, help me pick up the pieces to start practicing¨, we will be experts in repairing, let us take all this knowledge and philosophy to the women of the Foundation.
She told me all the time stories, her own and those of others, I had to grow up to realize that Colonel Aureliano Buendía was not my uncle and Macondo was not a city that was close to where I was born, that Doña Barbara was not my godmother or La Maga was not an old friend from her youth when she lived in Argentina. Every time I started reading a book and realized this, the surprise came to me with joy, laughter and above all tenderness. Now that she's gone, I feel like we still have that literary riddles game, I can't stop wondering how many books I still have to read with stories that my mom told me to make them part of me.
I lived many happy moments with my mother, I got used to the fact that her face was also the camera, she spent so much time looking through the viewfinder that sometimes I could decipher what she felt just by seeing the movement of her eyebrows or the way she put her eyes. mouth. He interspersed his work at the Foundation with scriptwriting, filmmaking, and traveling around the world to photograph women and their culture. I will never forget the quiet moments in our house, listening to salsa brava at full volume, singing almost at the same volume on the speaker, trying to dance with me with his two left feet. I was the only one who saw her dance, I knew she was doing terribly wrong and I didn't want to hurt anyone's feet. He made the best brownies that we ate with ice cream on Sunday afternoons while watching classic movies.
Arranging things in her closet when I was looking for her favorite dress, with which I imagined she would have liked to be cremated, I found a ceramic trunk repaired with the "Kintsugi" technique, inside it had dozens of printed emails, all of them were love letters. She had a modern epistolary relationship with one person for years, she did not tell anyone about it. They were precious letters, I was able to read the love and respect they had for each other, the mutual admiration, the interesting questions, the endless topics. I cried with joy reading each email, it made me extremely happy to know that my mom, in her own way, fell in love again, I could imagine her broken heart repaired with lines of gold.
On the trunk lid was a poem written in his handwriting. I identified it immediately because he told me by heart at times when I needed it the most, when I was afraid, when the anxiety for the new took over me. It was ¨Itaca¨ by Konstantino Kavafis. With my mother I understood what the Itacas mean in our lives, that sometimes we need setbacks to start our journey and that it is precisely this that enriches us in every way.
*ORIGINAL TEXT BY KARLA BEAUMONT. ALL TEXTS SHARED ON THIS PLATFORM ARE PROTECTED BY THE COPYRIGHT AGENCY. ITS USE OR PUBLICATION IN OTHER MEDIA OR PLATFORMS IS PROHIBITED
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Photo information
Author: @Karbea and family archive
Camera and editing: Samsung Galaxy A20
Location: Margarita Island, Venezuela
English translation with Google Translator.