By amigoponc on Skatehive
I close my eyes and the first sound that comes to mind is not the traffic of present-day Caracas—which now lies miles away—but the rhythmic clang of a trowel against the concrete block. It is a sharp, metallic and hopeful sound. If I had to define my childhood, I would do so through the feel of fresh concrete and the smell of the mist on Monte Carmelo, back in my native Táchira, where the days passed as slowly as the clouds over the Andes. That is what these prompts are like, such as the one presented by the Silver Bloggers community in their regular prompt The Silverbloggers Chronicles - Prompt #41. Let me tell you about it. *The Architect of My Dreams My father didn’t just build walls; he built security and a future. In that Táchira of the 1960s, I saw him transform the land into a home. Always under the same principle: ribbed blocks and a flat roof. For him, the flat roof was more than just a concrete ceiling; it was the promise that there would always be a firm place over our heads