The earliest memory I have of my life is about a trip I made when I was three years old. I remember it was in the morning so my parents had to wake me up so early that day. I can see in my mind clearly how my mom prepared a baby bottle with milk for the journey. 

Canto del Agua, Vallenar, Región de Atacama

               The voyage we were doing was from Copiapó to Canto del Agua, a rural place located near Vallenar, around one hour and a half from regional capital of Atacama. I remember I was very happy for going there because my parents told me there were lots of animals like horses, ducks, chickens, birds and others, beside so many trees with fruits, something strange if we consider Copiapó is a very dry place. That was a beautiful day with my dad, who cares about me like my mom did (yes, I come from a patriarchal and sexist family).

                I think it’s an important memory for me (and maybe that’s the reason I remember it) because it’s one of the few times I enjoy sharing moments with my dad. He always was working in almost all my childhood and playing, going out or simply being with him were exceptional situations.

                This memory makes me feel strange because it makes me happy remembering beautiful days about my childhood but instead I think it’s sad my dad couldn’t share more moments with my because the job. That’s sad for him too, but currently he says he is doing with his grandson (my nephew) what he couldn’t do with us (my brother and me).