Breathe
By Edmée Pardo
My grandfather had a beautiful handwriting. Garigoleada and clear, Niconne type for those who know typography. I don't know how he developed that skill that requires the patience of an artist, which he did have, and the discipline to trace the same handwriting thousands of times. I did not know his handwriting when I was young. When I was born my grandfather was 56 and from that day until he died at 98 I saw him old and handsome. He wore a suit, adorned his tie with fistol, paired his sweaters with gazne .
For Christmas dinners, with his boastful handwriting, he would write the menu on a white cardboard that he would center on the table decoration. For grandma's birthdays, he would draw a postcard with inks or crayons, and on the back he would write a rhyming idea. Grandpa's cards were so special and when Grandma died, I kept some of them to admire what came out of his hands and to corroborate that in his own way he loved her very much. I say in his own way because my grandfather was a man of his time, and the ways of the love of the gentlemen of those years included some domination. When I got married, I asked my grandfather to label the envelopes for the invitations. He rehearsed the ink and pen, and very responsibly did a job I admired. What beautiful handwriting, like those of the old days, like those that no one does anymore.
