“No hace falta caminar, cuando el amor sabe quedarse quieto.”
Saludos a todos. En este nuevo desafío de Hispaliterario 44 / Contamos con tu cuento, tenemos la oportunidad de crear nuestra propia historia. A veces, hay personajes que no necesitan palabras para transmitir su fuerza, pero que son fundamentales para lograr su cometido; un ejemplo claro son las mascotas. "Rulo" es un homenaje silencioso a esos compañeros fieles que, sin decir nada, nos enseñan lo que significa estar presente.
Hago una oportuna invitación a @yorgar y @mrenglish para que se unan a esta excelente actividad. Así como también, invito a todos aquellos que deseen adentrarse en este mundo de la escritura, a hacer clic en el siguiente enlace:
Click Aqui
Fuente
"Rulo"
Para mí, los días en esta casa siempre comienzan con la luz del sol filtrándose entre las persianas para luego tocar sin querer la alfombra donde me echo. Desde aquí, siempre veo a la familia intentar ser normal: mamá, con su taza de café entre las manos; papá, con la mirada perdida en el periódico; y el chamo, sí, ese jovencito amarrado a una silla de rueda con los ojos fijos en la nada. Nadie lo dice en voz alta, pero se siente una tormenta invisible que se ha apoderado de nosotros.
Yo soy un Golden Retriever con más barriga que orgullo, aplastado sobre mi vieja alfombra, viendo todo con los ojos bien abiertos. Desde fuera, cualquiera diría que somos una familia común. Pero hay silencios ahí… silencios tan densos que pesan más que mis patas viejas y adoloridas.
Imagen creada por Recraft
Martín, el jovencito de la casa, casi no dice palabra desde que la vida dio ese vuelco. Fue un accidente, una curva mal tomada, y de ahí en adelante, reposa en esa silla a la que se aferra y que chilla más que mi cadera. Él no llora, no protesta. Solo me abraza con todas sus fuerzas cuando logro llegar hasta él arrastrándome como puedo, todo torcido, con la lengua afuera y el corazón listo para quedarme con él.
Sus padres, en cambio, hablan mucho… pero entre ellos, cada vez menos. Mamá, con ojeras que ya son parte de su rostro, organiza terapias, rutinas, comidas sin gluten, sin azúcar, sin descanso. Papá, ausente, aunque está ahí, mira el café como si esperara respuestas en el fondo de la taza.
Imagen creada por Recraft
A veces, discuten en voz baja, como si el dolor pudiera silenciarse. Otras, en voz alta, como si gritándolo desapareciera. ¿Quién lo lleva hoy? ¿Ya hiciste los ejercicios? ¿Y yo cuándo respiro? Las preguntas flotan y nadie se atreve a responder.
En medio de todo, yo. Gordo, torpe, peludo. Pero paciente. Cuando Martín llora en silencio, yo le lamo las manos. Cuando sus padres no llegan a tiempo, yo ya estoy ahí. Sin entender los horarios, pero sí el temblor en sus dedos.
Una tarde, mientras me acariciaba detrás de las orejas, escuché con el alma lo que les dijo a sus padres, con su voz casi opaca:
—Ustedes no quieren que camine… solo quieren que esté.— Y creo que ahí cambió todo.
Imagen creada por Recraft
Desde ese día, algo empieza a moverse en la casa, como cuando el viento cambia de dirección sin hacer ruido. Mamá ya no corre tanto; a veces se sienta junto a Martín sin mirar el reloj, y le acaricia el cabello como si el tiempo no importara. Papá, que antes parecía hecho de sombra, ahora le cuenta historias viejas mientras le acomoda la manta. Se turnan en las noches, en los abrazos, en las pequeñas cosas que antes olvidaban: una sonrisa al pasar, una mano sobre el hombro, un “yo me encargo” que suena a alivio.
Empiezan a mirarse más. A escucharse. A turnarse no solo en las tareas, sino en el cariño. La casa no se vuelve perfecta, pero deja de ser una trinchera. Y aunque el dolor no se va, ya no recorre los pasillos en soledad.
Y yo, sigo en mi alfombra. Gordo. Feliz. Porque a veces, para reconstruir una familia, basta con estar. Sin expectativas. Sin juicios. Solo estar.
¡Ah…! no se olviden de quién desinteresadamente los mira. Me llaman Rulo.
Fuente
Jorge Rodríguez Medina (@siondaba)
Gracias por leer. Hasta la próxima.
🔹Si te gustó la historia, déjame tu comentario y sigue mi blog para más relatos. 🔹
English Version
“There’s no need to walk, when love knows how to stay still.”
Greetings to all. In this new Hispaliterario 44 challenge / We count on your story, we have the opportunity to create our own tale. Sometimes there are characters who don’t need words to convey their strength, yet they are essential to fulfill their purpose; a clear example are pets. "Rulo" is a silent tribute to those loyal companions who, without saying anything, teach us what it truly means to be present.
I take this chance to invite @yorgar and @mrenglish to join this excellent activity. Likewise, I invite everyone who wishes to step into this world of writing to click on the following link:
Click Here
Source
Rulo
For me, the days in this house always begin with the sunlight filtering through the blinds, then touching by chance the rug where I lie down. From there, I always watch the family trying to be normal: mom, with her coffee cup in her hands; dad, with his gaze lost in the newspaper; and the kid, yes, that boy tied to a wheelchair with his eyes fixed on nothingness. No one says it out loud, but it feels like an invisible storm has taken over us.
I am a Golden Retriever with more belly than pride, flattened on my old rug, watching everything with my eyes wide open. From the outside, anyone would say we are a regular family. But there are silences here… silences so heavy they weigh more than my old, aching paws.
Image created by Recraft
Martín, the young boy of the house, barely says a word since life took that turn. It was an accident, a badly taken curve, and from then on, he rests in that chair he clings to, which squeaks louder than my hips. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t protest. He just hugs me with all his strength whenever I manage to crawl up to him, twisted, tongue out, heart ready to stay by his side.
His parents, on the other hand, talk a lot… but with each other, less and less. Mom, with dark circles that have become part of her face, organizes therapies, routines, gluten-free meals, sugar-free meals, rest-free schedules. Dad, absent even while present, stares into his coffee as if expecting answers at the bottom of the cup.
Image created by Recraft
Sometimes they argue in whispers, as if pain could be silenced. Other times, they shout, as if yelling could make it vanish. Who’s taking him today? Did you do the exercises? And when do I get to breathe? Questions float around, and no one dares to answer.
In the middle of it all, there’s me. Fat, clumsy, furry. But patient. When Martín cries in silence, I lick his hands. When his parents don’t arrive in time, I’m already there. I don’t understand schedules, but I do understand the tremor in his fingers.
One afternoon, while he scratched me behind the ears, I heard with my soul what he told his parents, his voice almost fading:
—You don’t want me to walk… you just want me to be.— And I think that’s when everything changed.
Image created by Recraft
From that day on, something began to move in the house, like when the wind shifts direction without making a sound. Mom no longer runs so much; sometimes she sits next to Martín without looking at the clock, stroking his hair as if time didn’t matter. Dad, who used to seem made of shadows, now tells him old stories while tucking in his blanket. They take turns at night, with hugs, with the little things they once forgot: a smile in passing, a hand on the shoulder, an “I’ll take care of it” that feels like relief.
They start looking at each other more. Listening to each other. Taking turns not only in chores, but also in affection. The house doesn’t become perfect, but it stops being a trench. And although the pain doesn’t leave, it no longer roams the hallways in solitude.
And me, I stay on my rug. Fat. Happy. Because sometimes, to rebuild a family, it is enough just to be there. No expectations. No judgments. Just being there.
Saludos a todos. En este nuevo desafío de Hispaliterario 44 / Contamos con tu cuento, tenemos la oportunidad de crear nuestra propia historia. A veces, hay personajes que no necesitan palabras para transmitir su fuerza, pero que son fundamentales para lograr su cometido; un ejemplo claro son las mascotas. "Rulo" es un homenaje silencioso a esos compañeros fieles que, sin decir nada, nos enseñan lo que significa estar presente.
Hago una oportuna invitación a @yorgar y @mrenglish para que se unan a esta excelente actividad. Así como también, invito a todos aquellos que deseen adentrarse en este mundo de la escritura, a hacer clic en el siguiente enlace:
Click Aqui
"Rulo"
Para mí, los días en esta casa siempre comienzan con la luz del sol filtrándose entre las persianas para luego tocar sin querer la alfombra donde me echo. Desde aquí, siempre veo a la familia intentar ser normal: mamá, con su taza de café entre las manos; papá, con la mirada perdida en el periódico; y el chamo, sí, ese jovencito amarrado a una silla de rueda con los ojos fijos en la nada. Nadie lo dice en voz alta, pero se siente una tormenta invisible que se ha apoderado de nosotros.
Yo soy un Golden Retriever con más barriga que orgullo, aplastado sobre mi vieja alfombra, viendo todo con los ojos bien abiertos. Desde fuera, cualquiera diría que somos una familia común. Pero hay silencios ahí… silencios tan densos que pesan más que mis patas viejas y adoloridas.
Martín, el jovencito de la casa, casi no dice palabra desde que la vida dio ese vuelco. Fue un accidente, una curva mal tomada, y de ahí en adelante, reposa en esa silla a la que se aferra y que chilla más que mi cadera. Él no llora, no protesta. Solo me abraza con todas sus fuerzas cuando logro llegar hasta él arrastrándome como puedo, todo torcido, con la lengua afuera y el corazón listo para quedarme con él.
Sus padres, en cambio, hablan mucho… pero entre ellos, cada vez menos. Mamá, con ojeras que ya son parte de su rostro, organiza terapias, rutinas, comidas sin gluten, sin azúcar, sin descanso. Papá, ausente, aunque está ahí, mira el café como si esperara respuestas en el fondo de la taza.
A veces, discuten en voz baja, como si el dolor pudiera silenciarse. Otras, en voz alta, como si gritándolo desapareciera. ¿Quién lo lleva hoy? ¿Ya hiciste los ejercicios? ¿Y yo cuándo respiro? Las preguntas flotan y nadie se atreve a responder.
En medio de todo, yo. Gordo, torpe, peludo. Pero paciente. Cuando Martín llora en silencio, yo le lamo las manos. Cuando sus padres no llegan a tiempo, yo ya estoy ahí. Sin entender los horarios, pero sí el temblor en sus dedos.
Una tarde, mientras me acariciaba detrás de las orejas, escuché con el alma lo que les dijo a sus padres, con su voz casi opaca:
—Ustedes no quieren que camine… solo quieren que esté.— Y creo que ahí cambió todo.
Desde ese día, algo empieza a moverse en la casa, como cuando el viento cambia de dirección sin hacer ruido. Mamá ya no corre tanto; a veces se sienta junto a Martín sin mirar el reloj, y le acaricia el cabello como si el tiempo no importara. Papá, que antes parecía hecho de sombra, ahora le cuenta historias viejas mientras le acomoda la manta. Se turnan en las noches, en los abrazos, en las pequeñas cosas que antes olvidaban: una sonrisa al pasar, una mano sobre el hombro, un “yo me encargo” que suena a alivio.
Empiezan a mirarse más. A escucharse. A turnarse no solo en las tareas, sino en el cariño. La casa no se vuelve perfecta, pero deja de ser una trinchera. Y aunque el dolor no se va, ya no recorre los pasillos en soledad.
Y yo, sigo en mi alfombra. Gordo. Feliz. Porque a veces, para reconstruir una familia, basta con estar. Sin expectativas. Sin juicios. Solo estar.
¡Ah…! no se olviden de quién desinteresadamente los mira. Me llaman Rulo.
🔹Si te gustó la historia, déjame tu comentario y sigue mi blog para más relatos. 🔹
English Version
“There’s no need to walk, when love knows how to stay still.”
Greetings to all. In this new Hispaliterario 44 challenge / We count on your story, we have the opportunity to create our own tale. Sometimes there are characters who don’t need words to convey their strength, yet they are essential to fulfill their purpose; a clear example are pets. "Rulo" is a silent tribute to those loyal companions who, without saying anything, teach us what it truly means to be present.
I take this chance to invite @yorgar and @mrenglish to join this excellent activity. Likewise, I invite everyone who wishes to step into this world of writing to click on the following link:
Click Here
Source
Rulo
For me, the days in this house always begin with the sunlight filtering through the blinds, then touching by chance the rug where I lie down. From there, I always watch the family trying to be normal: mom, with her coffee cup in her hands; dad, with his gaze lost in the newspaper; and the kid, yes, that boy tied to a wheelchair with his eyes fixed on nothingness. No one says it out loud, but it feels like an invisible storm has taken over us.
I am a Golden Retriever with more belly than pride, flattened on my old rug, watching everything with my eyes wide open. From the outside, anyone would say we are a regular family. But there are silences here… silences so heavy they weigh more than my old, aching paws.
Image created by Recraft
Martín, the young boy of the house, barely says a word since life took that turn. It was an accident, a badly taken curve, and from then on, he rests in that chair he clings to, which squeaks louder than my hips. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t protest. He just hugs me with all his strength whenever I manage to crawl up to him, twisted, tongue out, heart ready to stay by his side.
His parents, on the other hand, talk a lot… but with each other, less and less. Mom, with dark circles that have become part of her face, organizes therapies, routines, gluten-free meals, sugar-free meals, rest-free schedules. Dad, absent even while present, stares into his coffee as if expecting answers at the bottom of the cup.
Image created by Recraft
Sometimes they argue in whispers, as if pain could be silenced. Other times, they shout, as if yelling could make it vanish. Who’s taking him today? Did you do the exercises? And when do I get to breathe? Questions float around, and no one dares to answer.
In the middle of it all, there’s me. Fat, clumsy, furry. But patient. When Martín cries in silence, I lick his hands. When his parents don’t arrive in time, I’m already there. I don’t understand schedules, but I do understand the tremor in his fingers.
One afternoon, while he scratched me behind the ears, I heard with my soul what he told his parents, his voice almost fading:
—You don’t want me to walk… you just want me to be.— And I think that’s when everything changed.
Image created by Recraft
From that day on, something began to move in the house, like when the wind shifts direction without making a sound. Mom no longer runs so much; sometimes she sits next to Martín without looking at the clock, stroking his hair as if time didn’t matter. Dad, who used to seem made of shadows, now tells him old stories while tucking in his blanket. They take turns at night, with hugs, with the little things they once forgot: a smile in passing, a hand on the shoulder, an “I’ll take care of it” that feels like relief.
They start looking at each other more. Listening to each other. Taking turns not only in chores, but also in affection. The house doesn’t become perfect, but it stops being a trench. And although the pain doesn’t leave, it no longer roams the hallways in solitude.
And me, I stay on my rug. Fat. Happy. Because sometimes, to rebuild a family, it is enough just to be there. No expectations. No judgments. Just being there.
Greetings to all. In this new Hispaliterario 44 challenge / We count on your story, we have the opportunity to create our own tale. Sometimes there are characters who don’t need words to convey their strength, yet they are essential to fulfill their purpose; a clear example are pets. "Rulo" is a silent tribute to those loyal companions who, without saying anything, teach us what it truly means to be present.
I take this chance to invite @yorgar and @mrenglish to join this excellent activity. Likewise, I invite everyone who wishes to step into this world of writing to click on the following link:
Click Here
Rulo
For me, the days in this house always begin with the sunlight filtering through the blinds, then touching by chance the rug where I lie down. From there, I always watch the family trying to be normal: mom, with her coffee cup in her hands; dad, with his gaze lost in the newspaper; and the kid, yes, that boy tied to a wheelchair with his eyes fixed on nothingness. No one says it out loud, but it feels like an invisible storm has taken over us.
I am a Golden Retriever with more belly than pride, flattened on my old rug, watching everything with my eyes wide open. From the outside, anyone would say we are a regular family. But there are silences here… silences so heavy they weigh more than my old, aching paws.
Martín, the young boy of the house, barely says a word since life took that turn. It was an accident, a badly taken curve, and from then on, he rests in that chair he clings to, which squeaks louder than my hips. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t protest. He just hugs me with all his strength whenever I manage to crawl up to him, twisted, tongue out, heart ready to stay by his side.
His parents, on the other hand, talk a lot… but with each other, less and less. Mom, with dark circles that have become part of her face, organizes therapies, routines, gluten-free meals, sugar-free meals, rest-free schedules. Dad, absent even while present, stares into his coffee as if expecting answers at the bottom of the cup.
Sometimes they argue in whispers, as if pain could be silenced. Other times, they shout, as if yelling could make it vanish. Who’s taking him today? Did you do the exercises? And when do I get to breathe? Questions float around, and no one dares to answer.
In the middle of it all, there’s me. Fat, clumsy, furry. But patient. When Martín cries in silence, I lick his hands. When his parents don’t arrive in time, I’m already there. I don’t understand schedules, but I do understand the tremor in his fingers.
One afternoon, while he scratched me behind the ears, I heard with my soul what he told his parents, his voice almost fading:
—You don’t want me to walk… you just want me to be.— And I think that’s when everything changed.
From that day on, something began to move in the house, like when the wind shifts direction without making a sound. Mom no longer runs so much; sometimes she sits next to Martín without looking at the clock, stroking his hair as if time didn’t matter. Dad, who used to seem made of shadows, now tells him old stories while tucking in his blanket. They take turns at night, with hugs, with the little things they once forgot: a smile in passing, a hand on the shoulder, an “I’ll take care of it” that feels like relief.
They start looking at each other more. Listening to each other. Taking turns not only in chores, but also in affection. The house doesn’t become perfect, but it stops being a trench. And although the pain doesn’t leave, it no longer roams the hallways in solitude.
And me, I stay on my rug. Fat. Happy. Because sometimes, to rebuild a family, it is enough just to be there. No expectations. No judgments. Just being there.
Una historia triste, pero con un final de esperanza, y desde la perspectiva del perrito que es algo especial. muy fino, gracias por compartir! éxitos!
Agradecido @mostrorobot, por tu comenario. Abrazos
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@tipu curate 8
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Saludos @jesuspsoto, estoy muy agradecido por el apoyo. Bendiciones.
Maravillosa historia que descubre cuán rota puede estar una familia en su interior aún cuando fijen normalidad. Interesante la figura del narrador que pone un toque distintivo al relato.
Éxitos amigo, lo mereces 👍
Me alegra que la historia te haya gustado. Saludos, @leopardo. Gracias por tu comentario.