If you crack open the mountains of Antioquia, Colombia, you’ll find my father’s inner child conserved in its stone. Before I left Medellín after almost two years of living there, I spent some time in my father’s pueblo, Montebello. After a day at a friend’s finca, the sun setting in a warm blue over the mountains, I looked into the valley and pictured my father as a child, standing in the same spot. He would have probably been riding horseback, a chestnut horse named Morgan who he’d always tell us stories about, gazing over the valley and dreaming about a life beyond the mountains. My entire life I’ve seen remnants of my father’s inner child peeking out from inside him: in the way he laughs; the way he’d play with my siblings and me, having just as much fun as us; the way he’d cry for his mother; the anger and resentment he held at the way life played out. 

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