The grandfather

By: Ernesto Pantaleón Medina / Television Camagüey

Do you remember, Miguel Ángel?

A beloved friend, every Saturday, came closer this way to his maternal grandfather's tomb.

Sometimes, he escaped from the school, in rested shifts to the tight schedule, but it was a necessity.

He missed (and of what way) to the old, high and hefty as an oak that has more than enough the croup of the horse, penetrated from the first years in the inextricable secrets of the manliness of well.

Anecdotes had many, as that of that other boy that inflated him an eye in third grade of the primary one, and the grandfather's lapidary statement: ¨ The men ¨ never returns marked home.

Miguel Ángel died and never more returned the complicated traveled by the property, behind the skilled horseman that continually left a teaching: not to steal, not to lie, not to insult, not to fight without reason, but always, always to forgive.

Today the grandson is a good man, in the biggest sense in the word, that that puts to the universal noun a ¨ H big and indelible ¨.

The life has broken him the habit of visiting the tomb every Saturday, but in all crossroad of its existence, when only fits an option and there is not margin to the error, my friend half-closes the eyes, puckers the frown and his expression is made like be absent.

He admits me that very softly, almost for itself, he asks to the grandfather:
¨ What you believe Miguel Ángel?¨.