_{If you prefer the English version, click on the following link 👉 HERE}

Hay invitaciones que llegan justo cuando el alma necesita hablar. Al encontrarme con la hermosa iniciativa “De tu puño y letra” propuesta por la amiga @damarysvibra, mis ojos recorrieron las líneas de su propuesta, pero mi corazón viajó instantáneamente hacia un solo lugar, o mejor dicho, hacia una sola persona. Mientras leía, la imagen de mi amada hija Sofía se dibujó con tanta nitidez en mi memoria que opacó a cualquier otro destinatario posible. No fue una elección racional, fue un impulso de amor. Por ello, he tomado pluma y papel para materializar este diálogo pendiente, dejando que sea mi pulso el que narre lo que mi pecho ha guardado durante tantos inviernos. Esta carta es para ti, mi pequeña, Pan de Leche…

Un invierno, una primavera… una promesa.

Realizar este ejercicio ha sido un viaje sensorial que va más allá del mensaje plasmado. A menudo pensamos que la escritura manual es un arte en extinción, reservado para listas de compras o firmas rápidas, pero en mi caso, el bolígrafo sigue siendo una herramienta activa de afecto.

No he dejado que la tecnología oxide mi caligrafía, pues mantengo la costumbre sagrada de escribir notas y postales que viajan mensualmente dentro de las cajas de encomienda que envío a mis hermanos en Venezuela. Esas letras son el “polizón” emocional que acompaña a los alimentos y medicinas, recordándoles que mi mano y mi corazón siguen presentes.

Sin embargo, detenerme a observar esta carta específica me ha hecho evocar la evolución de mi propia escritura, que es también la evolución de mi vida. Al ver mis trazos hoy, recuerdo con nostalgia los días de bachillerato, cuando la rigidez del Método Palmer guiaba mi mano con disciplina. Luego, la universidad transformó esa perfección en la prisa propia de tomar apuntes, y más tarde, mi etapa como educador me exigió una letra clara y grande para dominar el pizarrón.

Hoy, a mis 70 años, siento que mi caligrafía es como yo: más suelta, más libre, sin la presión de la perfección académica, pero con la firmeza de la experiencia.

Sentirme frente al papel en blanco para hablar con mi “pan de leche” no me trajo tristeza, sino una inmensa paz. Escribir su nombre y recordar nuestros momentos es una forma de abrazarla de nuevo. Cada curva de la tinta sobre el papel fue una caricia enviada al cielo, confirmando que la memoria, cuando se escribe a mano, tiene un peso y una textura que ninguna pantalla podrá jamás replicar.

^{A la memoria de Sofía M. Ramírez V., 1999-2010.}

Creciendo como persona, busca y encuentra lo que necesitas para ser un mejor humano en la Comunidad Holos&Lotus. De seguro, hay un tema que te llamará la atención.

Me gustaría conocer el punto de vista sobre este tópico de @silher y @chironga67. Espero leer su experiencia.

^{Infografía propia de la Comunidad Holos&Lotus}

Dedicado a todos aquellos que, día a día, hacen del mundo un lugar mejor.

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There are invitations that arrive just when the soul needs to speak. When I came across the beautiful initiative “In your own handwriting" proposed by my friend @damarysvibra, my eyes scanned the lines of her proposal, but my heart instantly traveled to one place, or rather, to one person. As I read, the image of my beloved daughter Sofía was so vividly etched in my memory that it overshadowed any other possible recipient. It was not a rational choice, it was an impulse of love. Therefore, I have taken pen and paper to materialize this pending dialogue, letting my pulse narrate what my heart has kept hidden for so many winters. This letter is for you, my little one, Milk Bread…

One winter, one spring… one promise.

Doing this exercise has been a sensory journey that goes beyond the message captured on paper. We often think that handwriting is a dying art, reserved for shopping lists or quick signatures, but in my case, the pen remains an active tool of affection.

Ontario, Canada. February 5, 2026.

Beloved “Milk Bread,” my eternal child:

I am writing this letter to you from far away, not only in physical distance, but also in time. Many calendars have passed since that June in 2009 when you had to let go of my hand to take God's. However, I want you to know that there is no snow in this north that can cool the warmth of your memory in my heart.

Today I live in a land called Canada. How I wish you could see this, daughter! Here the seasons are a spectacle that I know would have fascinated you. Right now, winter covers everything with a bright white blanket, a magical silence that reminds me of the peace you now inhabit. But soon spring will come, and life will burst forth in greens and flowers, just as your laughter burst forth in our home in Caracas. Every time I see a new bud defying the cold, I see your courage, the courage you maintained until your last day.

I have not let technology rust my handwriting, as I maintain the sacred habit of writing notes and postcards that travel monthly inside the boxes I send to my siblings in Venezuela. Those letters are the emotional “stowaway” that accompanies food and medicine, reminding them that my hand and my heart are still present.

I have so many things to tell you, but the most beautiful one has a name: Matthew.

He is your little brother. Sometimes, when I see him running around the house or marveling at some discovery, I stop dead in my tracks because I see glimpses of you in his gestures. He has that same sparkle in his eyes, that lively curiosity. I have told him a lot about you; he knows he has an older sister who watches over him from the stars. In his smile, sometimes, I see you come back to me for a moment.

I'm not sad, my love. I'm grateful. I'm grateful for the 11 wonderful years you gave me. You were and are my teacher of pure love.

However, pausing to look at this specific letter has made me reflect on the evolution of my own handwriting, which is also the evolution of my life. Seeing my strokes today, I remember with nostalgia my high school days, when the rigidity of the Palmer Method guided my hand with discipline. Then, college transformed that perfection into the haste of taking notes, and later, my time as an educator required me to write clearly and large to dominate the blackboard.

Here I am, shoveling snow, playing the piano, and living with gratitude, patiently waiting for the Lord's timing. I live with absolute certainty, the kind that needs no proof, that this goodbye is not forever. I know that when God allows it and my mission here is complete, we will meet again. And that embrace will be eternal.

Until then, receive my blessings and my kisses, which I send you on the north wind.

We love you,

Matthew and Dad.

Today, at 70, I feel that my handwriting is like me: looser, freer, without the pressure of academic perfection, but with the firmness of experience.

Sitting in front of a blank page to talk to my “milk bread” did not bring me sadness, but rather immense peace. Writing her name and remembering our moments together is a way of embracing her again. Each curve of the ink on the paper was a caress sent to heaven, confirming that memory, when written by hand, has a weight and texture that no screen can ever replicate.

^{In memory of Sofía M. Ramírez V., 1999–2010.}

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Growing as a person, seek and find what you need to be a better person in the Holos&Lotus Community. Surely, there's a topic that will catch your attention.

I'd like to hear the perspectives of @beaescribe and @cirangela on this topic. I look forward to reading about their experiences.

^{Community's own infographic Holos&Lotus}

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Dedicated to all those who, day after day, make the world a better place.

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