“Would you, by any chance, relive the time you have with your love ones who were already gone?” my grandson asked me.
Like Socrates and Plato, the latter asking and the former answering forever.
We always have talks like this. A thing I have not had with my grandpa. He was a quiet man. He taught me how to tie the knot for our cow, and to put the right amount of salt for our herd of goat.
In second grade, I transferred to our barrio, where my mum taught. And each time I went to stage when there was a recognition, he would always be there, with his army beret. I never knew why he always wore that cap. Something I still wonder why today. Something I would be able to ask should I be given a chance to talk to him.
My lolo would always have White Rabbit candies in his pocket whenever he went to our house. He bought my perfect-scored quiz papers.
He was my grandpa, and I was his grandson. That was all.
But we were never friends. He never talked. He never talked who taught him to tie a knot, or how many liters of vinegar can kill a goat. He never talked about his grandpa. Or why he liked White Rabbit. Or about his beret.
He never talked.
We never asked each other nor answered each other.
And I never asked.
He was my grandpa, and I was his grandson. That was all.
So if ever I would be given a chance to relive the days I have with my lolo, I would choose not to. If we would never be friends. If he would not be Socrates and I would not be Plato.
“I would never do that,” I answered my grandson (or was it an answer?) ”To ask that today is foolish.”
But I was.
