The writers we tend to accumulate paper, notebooks, notes, and all sorts of items, in a perfect mess that we understand ourselves .- Every so tired of seeing so many things piled up, we feel nostalgia for the diligence, and gives us dusting and clean up, as happened that day .- Reviewing each of the folders, mentally reliving what had saved everything, and as often happens, was pulled less than previously thought, again keeping almost everything, which proved useless of such an effort .- Despite having discovered this fact so well known, remained in the task, I found that old brown paper envelope with two letters inside, and my memory began to work trying to remember when she had reached me .- Little by little I was reminiscing and came to my mind the image of a man, I can not remember how much time had passed, went with the old overcoat over his shoulders, and asked me in one of my stories incorporate the contents of the envelopes, which I had never done .- I felt indebted to one character, and how to pay it, I took the two envelopes, and leaving everything aside, after reading them I started writing Letter to a son .- It seems unbelievable, son, that after much or as little time together, have a need to confess something .- For you learned to stay up late waiting for your arrival, and when they did, rocking the crib to sleep in peace with you .- I suffered declines to take your first steps, and went back to school with you when you went, and then I spent whole nights awaiting your return home, when your youth led you to copy my old outlets forgotten .- When you suffered, I suffered with you, your joys were mine, but tell you nothing, and when you fell, I budded with you, and today , give me a new teaching, with the arrival of the first grandchild .- For all the learned, son, thanks .- .. Letter to a parent .- Prototype peninsular immigrant repatriated, despite the years, had not lost the accent of your land .- admired for my wisdom in your lack of culture, tempered by dint of living, and without saying anything was to be like you .- Hard work, you were like a bear standing oak the onslaughts of life .- But over time, as the straw that prayed the stone, I was hurting, and as the oak seemed to be, and only with an ax falls, you also fell, and when you hit play your bad hand with the life and touched you lose, you left squeezing my hands, without a word .- I want you, wherever you are, I am as it were, like you, an oak tree to which they are chopping, and when I touch play and lose my last hand, I’ll find you, but meanwhile I want to tell you that I miss my old How could write a story with the content of these two envelopes, if I was envious of the author of these letters, and with them the story and what had written the life .-.. .