Ink and oil. From the printer machine. A smell that means Dad had taken me with him to check his last book’s printing or to the newsroom. I love being with Dad. I don’t understand what he’s doing but I now is something important by the way everybody is addressing to him.
I know about his books because he is writing at home. And I know he writes different books. Some of them to his students. Others, called novels, telling long stories. Others, with shorter writings called poems. I know some of his poems because he use to read them to Mom. Sometimes she doesn’t like to listen. She becomes shy and tries to escape. An it’s because they are about her. About how much Dad loves her. I don’t understand. I like that poems the most. I know some sentences by memory.
I like a lot watching my Dad at work. He looks so important, so respected. I’m proud of him. He is my hero and I like to walk by his side. I feel important too being with him in these places smelling ink and oil from the printer machine.