Story: A profession

Story a profession By: Javier Vega

 

 

The father thought of a career for his son. Something that also holds for pleasure and economic security grant him spiritual satisfaction that calm, so calm down without looking. He thought of the life of fishermen, with whom he had shared his student holidays in the small cove in the Midwest, cheerful and carefree remembered in their boats, sailing in search of fish, feeling the sea air with their faces aguerrirles salinity, but the return journey, on the coast, cold and poverty of their homes freedom outweighed the sea and again offered to be sad, sullen, imprisoned in their miseries.
He thought the job of the workers, in a life framed by an exhausting day schedule, where the shift change whistle reminds them to prepare for the next day, because of the industrial consortium does not stop to look at the man to man but this is nothing more than a tool for building their fortunes. The worker lives a paid subject to the usury of an industrialist. Overall nothing new because while the men continue his lust for power over their fellow life will be nothing but the opinion of the privileged on the less fortunate.
There had to be a trade of dreams and real. Something abstract but also physical. Passive thing but vibrant, something that moved him viscera and would satisfy the soul. The father began to tap his fingers on the table edge thinking in a profession pleasant for her young son, in a rhythmic thumping pressure feeling escape by the tips of his fingers until he fell asleep with his head back to the head of the dinner table. The next day I see blond curls hanging down to her little back, his heart full of joy, he had asked his wife to let them grow up free but the kids were then fashioned skinhead woman had consented to show the relatives the offspring looked like her husband in a photo taken in 1933, when she posed for the family album with his hands on the wicker chair and blond curls hanging on his back on a gorgeous batiste dress. The child was late to his life, would not have the time to guide and support, in adolescence would find orphan, with a young mother who attract men to the house and in the midst of such a situation congest their studies, and nerves, would eat nails and burst into pimples, the final energy waiter hairs and begin to live like a bum. That spring morning the father grabbed his little hand and walked to the back of the yard where the source was, it was a marble basin with a jet of water thrown into the air by the thalamus of a cherub, had built their ancestors, in the romantic era when the declarations of love had to be said in an atmosphere conducive to the acceptance of the person sought, and where he proposed to his wife five years ago, and where her without taking his eyes from the cherub had accepted to escape their poverty.
I sat on the swing against the geraniums and gently push it into the air, causing the laughter of a child with his face dim sun. Then they sat under a tree and listen to the water falling on the slab of the source, remained quiet, the child sitting on his lap, with his head resting on his father's chest, in silence, the silence that give children when are satisfied, and still cannot speak. Soon wrapped a natural melody, a harmony of sounds and voices. The court told them his life and the child learned the language of nature. When winter came continued their visits to the source, despite continuous warnings and scolding of the mother "you'll get sick and go to your child sick." What she did not know was that the lower small annoyance ran to tug the sleeve of the jacket of his father and that he had no other thing to do to open the garden, then the child began to walk quickly toward the back of the yard The father resigned as usual was sitting next to his son, looking stiff and silent gray sky through the branches of the trees, while the child began to dialogue with nature sounds in a new conversation.
Within three years of the child's mother complained in a voice exasperated by the pain, "the child has a speech defect" because the child sounds emitted, although perfect in its tone, had no resemblance to any human language hitherto known, "we have to take him to a specialist," he said strictly. The father rose the situation, would have to take him to the doctor to meet his wife, but he knew that the child spoke. If that emitted sounds were different, was the language of the place of the back of the yard. He decided to take a walk to clear your thoughts.
Unfolded on the streets all the pagan celebrations that promote merchants for Christmas, stirring troubled people from one side to another in search of the latest gifts, and amid this clutter sitting on a bench in the corner of lit street, a blind violinist. What sweetness was in the notes, infinite peace flooded her face as she lay on her ear and her hands instrument executed a magical music glimpsed the pigeons and to remain static with their sharp eyes and raised ridges ... The  fluter   of doves to disperse, connoted the blind man's presence, they stood in silence facing each other, at last the blind man said "Thanks for coming, I've been waiting since birth your child" began to play a soft melody, infinite, discovering music with a world that only perceived. The father was when tears fell amid the Christmas rush left blind after his notes, vanishing into the sky in a final chord, then the parent with infinite care hereby release violin dead arms and left with his precious gift to her home. The boy looked surprised, and for the first time issued a "Thanks Dad" clear and well pronounced for the surprise of the mother, and the father realized that the boy had found a profession.