ok-cola

Español

"I want to knock, your door,

even if no one understands it..."

Since Saturday night he would have put two ok-cola to cool close to the end of the fridge. By Sunday at 1:00pm, these would have been cold, frosted. I would have arrived a little before midday, between the decline of lunch and the late breakfast. Sometime later I would have been enduring the heat of Sunday, which has no scientific explanation, but is usually different from the heat felt the rest of the days of the week, it feels like it sprouts from the earth and the bowels of heaven at the same time, without referring to the boring homily I heard continuously during the immature part of my life, over and over again the same readings, with the same explanations until the end of time. And the fact that my grandfather's house was half submerged in the earth, it was a den, buried under the level of the road, that's why I had those stairs at the entrance that when mother washed them, they looked like cascades of bubbles and water. It was those same stairs and that same mother, mine, that saw the Polish priest arrive. It was the priest of the parish where my mother was going, who had a determination to meet my grandfather, went down those stairs one morning in August and the words of welcome were the thread that stretched a bond: "Where does this priest motherless priest come from?" Really that was the beginning of a good friendship, different, like everything that surrounded my grandfather. Although the week went between the coming and going, Sundays were my long days, they were the infinite solstices.  They were until I decided to stay with my grandfather while my parents made their later visits. After a few long laughs, after seeing my grandfather with his trousers at the rump of his buttocks imitating some of the family's known backsides, the sun became corrosive. The walls breathed heat. My grandfather sat in his rocking chair on the balcony, from which he shouted that welcome to the priest; and that it was right outside the door of the room. There, in the only bed of that house, I sat, listened to him singing, or making jokes, or speaking to me, or all in different orders. Sometimes I fell asleep, the hot hours passed unnoticed between the visitors and the voices. When it was 4 o'clock in the afternoon, I would sit on the edge of the balcony, on the railing, my grandfather would say to me: get yourself a "colachampám" and bring another one to me. Today is Sunday, I have an ok-cola in the fridge, it's cold frost, that's how I preferred them and he never forgot it.