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Untitled
By Garik Charneco
Untitled
By Garik Charneco
I once told my father, "Weekends always look so nice. Why are the weekends always so nice looking, dad?"
I was a kid. Maybe seven or eight. I don't remember his exact reaction, his mannerisms. I must have been on the terrace above our garage, both of us hugging the concrete railing and looking out on the street along with the suburbs of San Juan.
I do remember his exact words. He said, "Everyday is beautiful."
I didn't understand. What a silly thing to say. Everyday isn't beautiful because I saw that weekends were always sunny and blue while weekdays always began dew-soaked and gray. I later, many years later and only after my father had passed away, that he was right. My observations were scant and biased. Weekdays meant rising early for school, around the same time that the morning was still recovering from the dawn. Weekdays were the days that soaked your pant legs with dew as you ran through the grass and splattered the streets with the watery effluent from the trash truck because that was any early morning. On weekends, we all awoke just a little bit later or, like myself, watched TV, never noticing the major shifts between early morning and late. Saturday morning cartoons always ended around 12noon, when I would go out to the terrace and see the tropical sun all over unbroken strips of green. A noon sun is the most gorgeous of illumination, the ultimate manifestation of what makes our planet. I only knew the noon sun of weekends, hence my observation.
A sunny day also meant a warm day. I recently experienced one of those deceiving late March days, up here, far away from home. It was gorgeous out; the noon sun is beautiful everywhere. Liquid shimmers of melting ice peppered the sidewalk and the fuzz of budding trees invited people to touch. It was the same kind of sun that I always imagined baked the deep grooves of of the "roble*" tree outside our house. However, it was still chilly out with the wind defiling the radiance. It was a sun-dog spring with everything illuminated and the melting piles of dirty snow exhaling their last chills. From inside, it was still beautiful and a Wednesday too.
When my father said everyday is beautiful he wasn't being saccharine or reflective. He was being practical. Every day is beautiful because everyday has a noon and a high sun. I looked for a metaphysical answer to my father's observation when all I had to do was remember our planet's own rotations and orbits.
I was a kid. Maybe seven or eight. I don't remember his exact reaction, his mannerisms. I must have been on the terrace above our garage, both of us hugging the concrete railing and looking out on the street along with the suburbs of San Juan.
I do remember his exact words. He said, "Everyday is beautiful."
I didn't understand. What a silly thing to say. Everyday isn't beautiful because I saw that weekends were always sunny and blue while weekdays always began dew-soaked and gray. I later, many years later and only after my father had passed away, that he was right. My observations were scant and biased. Weekdays meant rising early for school, around the same time that the morning was still recovering from the dawn. Weekdays were the days that soaked your pant legs with dew as you ran through the grass and splattered the streets with the watery effluent from the trash truck because that was any early morning. On weekends, we all awoke just a little bit later or, like myself, watched TV, never noticing the major shifts between early morning and late. Saturday morning cartoons always ended around 12noon, when I would go out to the terrace and see the tropical sun all over unbroken strips of green. A noon sun is the most gorgeous of illumination, the ultimate manifestation of what makes our planet. I only knew the noon sun of weekends, hence my observation.
A sunny day also meant a warm day. I recently experienced one of those deceiving late March days, up here, far away from home. It was gorgeous out; the noon sun is beautiful everywhere. Liquid shimmers of melting ice peppered the sidewalk and the fuzz of budding trees invited people to touch. It was the same kind of sun that I always imagined baked the deep grooves of of the "roble*" tree outside our house. However, it was still chilly out with the wind defiling the radiance. It was a sun-dog spring with everything illuminated and the melting piles of dirty snow exhaling their last chills. From inside, it was still beautiful and a Wednesday too.
When my father said everyday is beautiful he wasn't being saccharine or reflective. He was being practical. Every day is beautiful because everyday has a noon and a high sun. I looked for a metaphysical answer to my father's observation when all I had to do was remember our planet's own rotations and orbits.
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Peace!
*Roble is the Spanish word for oak. When someone in PR says roble they are literally saying "Puerto Rican Oak," which makes no botanical sense. I have no idea what it really is, but certainly not an oak. However, that is what we called it.
*Roble is the Spanish word for oak. When someone in PR says roble they are literally saying "Puerto Rican Oak," which makes no botanical sense. I have no idea what it really is, but certainly not an oak. However, that is what we called it.
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