Zitarrosa and his nostalgic guitar
“I hate small talk. I want to talk about atoms, death, aliens, sex, magic, intellect, THE MEANING OF LIFE, faraway galaxies, the lies you’ve told, your flaws, your favorite scents, your childhood, what keeps you up at night, your insecurity and fears. I like people with DEPTH, who speak emotion from a twisted mind. I don’t want to know “what’s up.” ~Author Unknown
I love to tell stories, and I love to hear them. We all have a story of our own—chapters upon chapters filled with joy and anguish, sorrow and anger, fear and loss, and always, love. That is the beauty of our lives.
October is my dad’s birthday month. In just a few days, he will celebrate 82 glorious years on this earth. His name is Wilfredo “Fero,” and he himself is a walking book—one filled with many chapters, some of them deeply painful and challenging.
My dad endured many losses throughout his life: physical losses, including the death of a young brother and sister, and financial losses that left lasting wounds. These experiences caused him great emotional pain and slowly turned him inward, shaping him into an introvert. The dad I knew until about the age of twelve was loving and fun—he planned camping trips, loved to hike, and had a deep love for nature. But one day, he changed. The pain became too heavy for him to carry.
During my teenage years, I struggled to understand him. Having the most loving, energetic, and charismatic mother in the world, it was hard for me to comprehend why my dad couldn’t be the same way. Whenever I pointed out a trait I didn’t like about him, my mom would gently remind me, “Look for the good. Your dad has many qualities.” And so I did. It wasn’t always easy, but I tried.
Some of my dad’s greatest qualities are his honesty, generosity, and humility. He would do anything for someone in need—quietly, without recognition, and without fuss. He is also one of the smartest people I have ever known. Growing up, I don’t remember a single day when he didn’t have a book in his hands. One of his favorite authors is Miguel de Cervantes, the famed author of Don Quixote.
My dad has always been a lover of classical guitar, and one of my favorite childhood memories is when he took my brothers and me—ages ten, eleven, and twelve—to see the Uruguayan classical guitarist Alfredo Zitarrosa in concert. We were the only children in the auditorium, and I remember feeling incredibly special and ecstatic to be there. At home, my dad often played Zitarrosa’s records—coffee and cigarette in hand—listening carefully to every lyric, each one heavy with themes of love, grief, and triumph.
My dad is also one of the best conversationalists I know. He is so well-read that he can talk about almost anything: politics, social justice, cattle raising, farming, theology, sports, and so much more. I have always deeply admired his thirst for knowledge. Even now, he has never stopped learning.
Two years ago, my youngest brother became gravely ill, and during his time in the hospital, we witnessed many miracles. During my visit to Mexico to see my brother, I like to think I experienced a miracle of my own—my reconciliation with my dad.
My dad and I had always maintained an amicable relationship. I knew deep down that he was a good man, a man of honor, and that he loved me. But I hadn’t allowed myself to see beyond that—immaturity, perhaps. During that visit, my dad and I finally had the space to spend real time together and see each other in a different light.
The long days at the hospital and the anguish surrounding my brother’s uncertain health were taking a toll on my dad’s eighty-year-old body and soul. One day, I offered to stay home with him. I, too, was exhausted—drained by the endless hours in the ICU and the heartbreaking news we received day after day. That decision created space—unintentionally and quietly—for healing to begin between my dad and me. The ordinary conversations we shared that day freed me in ways I didn’t know I needed.
We talked for hours. He shared stories from his youth—playing professional baseball in a minor league in Mexico City, attending college to become a radio broadcaster. He poured out his heart, and for the first time, I truly saw his pain, his love for us, and the man he had always been. It was a blessing—for me, and for both of us.
I vividly remember the morning I left my hometown to return home to Stan and the girls. It was just my parents and me in the house as we waited for the shuttle. As it arrived and we prepared to say goodbye—excruciating goodbyes, filled with uncertainty about the physical challenges my brother still faced—I hugged my dad with the same love and intensity I had always reserved for my mom.
In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I walked away knowing that the pain I had carried for so many years about my relationship with my dad had finally been healed.
Sometimes, the way back home shows up in the most unexpected ways. Love you, Dad—and happy birthday in advance. ❤
