Fly High Dad
Human life is finite, and it is up to you to leave marks that last through time—not to fill your ego, for that will also die with you, but so that those who follow you may make better use of their seconds in this world.
My father was born in October 1960, in Mérida, Venezuela. He was part of a large, humble family, raised by a strong mother who took on the role of both parents in the absence of a father figure. He was the favorite of his sisters, the youngest of the boys, affectionately called "Julito"—until I was born, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. In San Juan de los Morros, where he spent much of his childhood, he was nicknamed "la sardinita" because of his love for swimming, something he did well in what I believe was the only Olympic-sized pool in the capital of the plains.
In Caracas, he lived through some wild times, where they called him "Julio Pepino." I wasn't around then, but I imagine it was because of his nose. Like all hi