My father.
My father and I used to eat icecream on Sundays as we read the weekly Calvin and Hobbes comic- even in the winter time when icecream was out of season. When I was in elementary he would let me pigtail his hair and leave stories about ponies left inside his financial reports.
He gave me Animal Farm in the first grade and took me to my first Black Sabbath concert when I was just in middle school. When he drove me up to Seattle for college, he got so pissed that the rented mini van wouldn'r drive as fast as the drum line. He taught me to question everything and to always stand my ground.
He always liked his blouses so stiff that most cleaners would be unwilling to do his shirts. He always kept his shoes on and never even owned a T-shirt until I was past college.
We rode horses together and ate dozens of nachos together. He was proud of his heritage and the role the Flores family played in Texas history. Even at his death, he still dreamed of being a cowboy.
He was a serious man who had a soft spot for large spoonfuls of peanut butter, flan, margarhitas, and naps in his backyard with the corgi. He had a secret hobby of collecting rocks and twigs like a squirrel.
A world wide adventurer who had been to over 50 countries and even stayed with cannibals- he was a man of unusual mystery who instilled in me a deep passion for literature, art, and exploration.
