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The clay pot
Letter to my father, Rodrigo Escobar Navia
Translated from the Spanish by Ximena with the precious support from Elizabeth Nash
Today, the 6th of November in 2020, you would have turned 86. It is not by chance that I find myself here, in this library, reading Borges. How you loved Borges! So much so that I scattered your ashes on the grave of the celebrated argentine, in Geneva’s cimetière des rois. For two years I kept your ashes at the bottom of my wardrobe. I was terrified that someone would find them. I didn’t know where to lay you to rest. To throw you into the River Rhone was an option; all rivers carry the dead. But one day it occurred to me to place you in Borges’ grave. You’re fine there, and I have a place to bring you a rose. I smile at the thought that those coming to honour the memory of Borges are, unknowingly, visiting you in passing. Sometimes I imagine you looking at them with interest, trying to decipher their stories. Over time you begin to recognize returning visitors, “We have a visitor, Maestro,” you call out to Borges. He’s happy to borrow your eyes, and you narrate the world to him. What enviable conversations you must be enjoying.
Today the fear of forgetting assaulted my mind. That I could forget you. As if memories were water that I struggle to hold in my hands. I refuse to forget the warmth of your smile, your large brown hands, that strange…
