The Father's Table

Good afternoon community, today I want to show you a story about why we do not give ourselves a chance to sit down at the table to share not just one bread but dinner with our relatives; lately people. (Breakfast, lunch or dinner), rushed by the stress of the day for things that have not ended in their work. It would be good to sometimes sit down and enjoy a good meal or a bread with coffee in the afternoon and talk.

Memory is a bridge between yesterday and today, memories like islands that, as time goes by, become distant. My father's table always modest, some coffee, some fruit, some bread that joined us, a kind of communion and the window from where we saw the street, people from one place to another always in a hurry and he there watching, In the picture, neither the bread nor the cat appears. Campeche took them when he said goodbye and the sun dusk on his back with mowing light, sometimes I dream of him, but I see him face to face with a beautiful and fragrant bread to share and the cat walking between his legs, puts his hand on my shoulder and I wake up, a vague smell of bread invades the room but I do not see it anymore...