PURITY

PURITY

In all the major cities of the world there are neighborhoods better than others.
We already know who can pay for those neighborhoods. The rich of course. ' And it is  good there are people who can do it!
In Havana there is one of those neighborhoods (there are actually two or three), but the composition of the inhabitants is a little different from that of other similar neighborhoods in other countries.
Miramar
Around here live some descendants of those people who were rich, or professionals who  decided not to leave Cuba when everything was radicalized. But the "new rich" also live there, those whose the system has benefited with good opportunities in life, for doing well their jobs, whatever that means.
What do these people have in common?
Pride for the  material world , for what they own or possess. Residences, cars, beautiful clothes and shoes, surfboards, cell phones, mp3, ipods, gym bodies. And even when Miramar does not have beaches, it flows along a coastal line with stones, but the inhabitants have managed to make it "bañable" (bathable), especially by the very young who spend most of the year in schools and the beaches on the other side of the city are very distant.
But of course, it is not a closed space.
And because I have friends over there from time to time I go near the sea, a pleasure that I never give up.
Last Sunday.
Beautiful show the sea, a sun not very strong. Some people there already.
And he appeared.
He came on his bicycle, unpainted and old.
About 30 years. Hair in a ponytail. In a clipped jeans. Flips flops. A colorless pullover.
He was a little hidden by some bushes and trees and I assumed that he was keeping the bike so that it would not give so much sun.
Through the branches I glimpsed as he took off his sweater and sandals and took something in his arms.
He came out of the bushes.
Superb. Chest slightly hairy, broad and powerful. Strong legs and pre-historic male feet (large, strong, nevertheless well-formed).
A God on  Cuban land.
But the most curious thing was what he carried in his arms, without a doubt. as a man of work,
A baby. I mean, a little one maybe a year and a half.
Son of his father, you know what I mean.
It passed through everyone. Making everyone looks up.
He went to a corner of the place, and deposited the baby in a small natural pot.
Between his legs.
The impressive thing was the way he deposited him. Very delicately He undressed him, an oil passed on his body. He put his messy hair in his place. He took out his inflatable, his rubber duck and smiled.
Have you ever had the impression that no matter what happens the world is fine, it is safe in spite of everything?
That was my impression.
It was pure love that this robust and giant man transmitted next to his son.
He did not care about people, or what they thought of his old shorts or his rusted bicycle.
Nothing could reach it, and all of us who were close  felt an expansive wave of love and well-being.
It was really an incredible mixture: physical strength, iron health, the purity of spirit of the child, and his own, the sea and the sun, the hormones that ran in that incredible body and finally what I liked the most: the  Absolute lack of interest for the present inhabitants of the residences, for the cars, the nice clothes and shoes, the surfboards, the cell phones, mp3 and bright ipods on the colorful towels, and gym bodies.
Purity.
And it reminded me of what the troubadour sang:

Maybe because my childhood is still playing on the beach
And hidden behind the reeds my first love sleeps
I carry your light and your smell wherever you go
And huddled in your sand
I keep love, games, and sorrows.

cubangel@gmail.com