Antonio went up to the attic to look for the box his mother had given him order. It was the smallest floor of the house, a conference room that, over the years, had become a forgotten storeroom of memories.

He observed the slope of the interior of the roof, from the zenith to its most leave area, where there was a window that overlooked the rooftops of the city. Through it a bright ray of sunlight entered and warmly illuminated the room. He went to a cupboard and opened the leaves of its doors.

He discovered six identical boxes, one on top of the other. Impatiently, he took the first one, slapped the lid aside and began to look inside for the photo album that his mother had given him order . He emptied the whole box, but couldn't find it. He went to take out the next one with a strong tug, with which he wanted to download a feeling of frustration. He had no interest in sifting through an old family album; all he wanted to do was spend the afternoon playing soccer with his friends, but he put so much energy into it that he swung the column of five boxes and one of them fell to the floor, spilling its contents. They were papers. One of them aroused his curiosity. It was a small envelope with a name written on it: his name.

Antonio sat down on the floor. He opened it carefully, trying not to tear it, and found a calligraphy that unleashed a thousand memories.

Segovia, 1937

You know, Antonio, life can take many directions; a small decision can set in motion a series of unforeseen circumstances that suddenly change the course of our existence. That's why I'm going to explain my life to you with the metaphor of an oak tree:

The roots indicate where I come from, which is a poor place that made me who I am. The trunk represents the people who have been with me since I was born, those who helped me grow: my parents, my friends, your mother, you.... Then there are the branches, which are the different stages of my life. And finally, the leaves: some are dry and others are green, full of life. This canopy is made up of the decisions I have made: good and bad. The tree, I insist, is me. Thanks to the roots that hold me and the strong trunk that supports me, I sway without fear of falling because of the wind or the rain.

You are eight years old, my son. Don't be in a hurry to grow up, the best stage of life is childhood. You must keep in mind that childhood slips through our fingers, that when you are looking for it, it is already far away. That's why I warn you that not everything will be games. You will have to study, you will discover what your concerns are and when adolescence arrives you will notice physical and emotional changes. Many times you will feel alone, misunderstood, sad. And other times you will be happy. You will overflow with adrenaline and you will do a thousand crazy things.

I ask you to always keep an eye on the oak tree. You are the manager of the tree and its beauty and splendor depend on you. Do you prefer its trunk to be rotten and its leaves to be wilted and lifeless, or do you want it to shine in all its splendor?

You may wonder why I am writing all this to you. My tree grew in a forest, together with the men and women of my generation, where a monster has just appeared, ready to burn the grove. Antonio, I am going to fight for the return of peace because war is the abominable beast that scorches everything in its path.

I hope, with all my heart, that you understand why I had to leave. And that I will do my best to come back. In the meantime, take care of mom for me,

Dad

Antonio looked up. The envelope also contained a photograph of his father. He had forgotten the sound of his voice and his smell, as well as many of the moments he had spent with him.

He lay down on the floor and looked up at the ceiling. His conscience was heavy for several years without making an effort at school, without obeying the teachers. Suddenly he had understood that he was not happy, that he had to change. 

He jumped to his feet and came down from the garret. In his room he grabbed his wallet and keys, and went to a nursery.

With a sapling in his hands he approached the cemetery. He barely remembered the way to get to the grave where his father's mortal remains rested. He got lost more than once until he found it. 

Next to the tombstone he planted the oak tree. He promised himself that he would take care of it, because that little tree would also become the metaphor of his life. It had to start growing so that it would sprout strong, leafy branches.