Penumbra

Calling Home

I dialed the familiar number...

"¡Hola? ¿Quién está ahí?" (Hello? Who's there?), my parents' voices rang out. The sound instantly filled me with joy. I love Himmelsburg and everything it encompasses, but hearing my family's voices and reminiscing about my homeland always stirs up nostalgia within me.

"Hola, Papá! Soy Gonzalo. ¿Cómo están todos?" (Hello, Dad! It 's Gonzalo. How is everyone?), I greeted them warmly.

"Oh, my boy! Yes, yes, we're all fine, a bit busy, but we've been wanting to call you as well. Your uncle Pablo was looking into a plan that wouldn't drain our pockets just to reach you! But hey, isn't it expensive for you to make such a call?" my father, Pedro Garcia, replied. He works in a copper mine and possesses a robust physique, his weathered face reflecting the hardships of life. His once-curly black hair now peppered with gray, and his rough, calloused hands were perpetually dirty and blistered. He was a hardworking man, just like my mother, and together they toiled to maintain our household. Besides, my dad had a flair for cooking, delighting in preparing local dishes, particularly those involving fish. He also harbored a passion for mechanics, and whenever he found free time, he would send me to my uncle Pablo's workshop to learn. The two of them shared a deep friendship and enjoyed fixing cars and working with various materials.

"For now, it's not a problem. I wanted to talk to Sofia. I heard she now has internet access there, so we could chat using Messenger," I assured him.

"Yes! She's actually here. We had a little celebration because she got accepted into the music institute in Santiago. She's a born talent, just like you, son!" my father proudly exclaimed.

"That's fantastic news! Dad, can I speak to her? We can plan a video call and I can have a chance to catch up with everyone," I requested.

"Of course!" I heard my father call out in the background. "Sofi! Gonza is calling! Come here!"

Sofia grabbed the phone and greeted me with enthusiasm, "¡Hola, Gonza! ¿Cómo estás? It's been a while since we last heard from you."

We conversed for a while, discussing her new career as a singer in the philharmonic orchestra in Santiago. Eventually, we set a date for the video call, enabling us to connect with the rest of the family.

Two days passed, and Sunday arrived. I sat down with a cup of coffee while Merlin, our beloved pet, nestled on my lap, seeking warmth. I turned on the PC, also activating my wife's Windows computer. The camera stood ready as I logged into Messenger. Being cautious, and perhaps a bit paranoid, I always covered the camera when not in use.

"¡Hola, Gonza!" Sofia waved her hands excitedly as Marie joined her, eagerly awaiting the conversation.

Behind Sofia, I spotted my father and mother, sitting comfortably. A pang of guilt washed over me for not making the effort to call them in the past months. Nearly half a year had gone by without me checking my missed calls.

"Son, we're sorry we haven't tried calling you during this time. We thought you might be too busy with work and the impending arrival of your child," my mother, Clara Morales, apologized sincerely.

My mother, a strong-willed woman afflicted with diabetes, never let her condition hinder her hard work or housekeeping duties. She was always there for me, especially when it came to my medical treatments. In our early years, we didn't even own a television, and our diet was modest but sufficient to sustain us.

"But now, with Messenger, we can send messages and have video calls more frequently. Our internet isn't the best, but with the combined efforts of us parents, we managed to install a router!" Sofia exclaimed, her joy contagious.

Santa Maria, my hometown, lay nestled within the Atacama Desert, a place lacking in notable attractions. The landscape consists mainly of houses, beaches, dunes, rocks, and cacti. The climate was harsh and arid, as if the town had been left behind by time itself. Mining and fishing were the primary sources of livelihood, and the days were long while the nights seemed too short. I must admit, I developed a disdain for sand, and the scorching sun always burned my skin despite the common belief that people with darker skin don't burn easily. As soon as my tan faded, my skin returned to a light brown hue. However, there were aspects of my hometown that I cherished. The nights always blessed us with clear skies, allowing me to witness the majestic Milky Way stretching across the heavens. Moreover, I adored the breathtaking sight of the sun setting over the ocean's horizon, painting the sky and the sea with shades of orange. Sometimes, I find myself dreaming of the sea, yearning for the fresh salty breeze that caresses its shores every day.

"How is Grandpa? And Grandma?" I inquired, eager to hear about their well-being.

"Grandpa is doing fine. He still meets up with his friends at the park to play chess. He's not feeling his best these days, but we're doing everything we can to ensure he's well taken care of. As for Grandma, she looks good. You know her; she's always been an active woman," my mother shared.

Unfortunately, I only knew my grandparents from my mother's side. My paternal grandfather perished in a storm; he was a fisherman. My paternal grandmother, on the other hand, succumbed to lung cancer due to her heavy smoking, particularly after my grandfather's demise. My mother's father, however, also worked in the mine as a machinist. He retired a bit earlier due to an injury sustained on the job.

Now in his late seventies, his health had been steadily declining, but his spirit remained strong.

Our conversation lasted for hours as we shared stories, laughs, and updates about our lives. It was a much-needed respite, an escape from the horrors that plagued my mind. Sofia's music career was flourishing, and she excitedly told us about her upcoming performances. Marie shared the news of our unborn child, a little girl who would soon grace our lives with her presence. My parents were overjoyed, and my mother eagerly shared advice on raising children.

As the conversation wound down, I felt a sense of calm and contentment. Connecting with my family, despite the distance that separated us, reminded me of the importance of cherishing loved ones and finding solace in their presence.

"Take care, Gonza. We love you and can't wait to meet your daughter," my father said, his voice filled with warmth.

"Te queremos mucho, Gonza," (We love you very much) my mother added, her words carrying a world of love and affection.

"Los quiero mucho, los extrañare. Hasta pronto," (I love you too, I will miss you too, See you soon) I responded, my voice choked with emotion.

The call ended, and I sat in silence for a while, reflecting on the conversation. The weight of my responsibilities and the darkness I had encountered in Himmelsburg still burdened me, but for a brief moment, I had found respite in the embrace of family.

The next day, I knew I had to make a call to my parents. It had been months since we last spoke, and I was well aware of their concern for me and the well-being of my wife during her pregnancy.