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, a raised surface where we could hang out the washing in the sun or where we children could climb up to try and touch the sky with our hands.

I remember the move to the capital. Caracas in the 1970s was a vibrant adventure, a city growing upwards and outwards. We settled in Vista Hermosa, in Catia. The name did not lie: from there, the valley stretched out like an illuminated nativity scene as evening fell. Once again, I saw my old man shouldering the weight of the days and the building materials. His hands, weathered by work and love, raised the walls of our family home.

That house in Vista Hermosa became our headquarters. The textured brickwork, perfectly smooth beneath the light-coloured paint, felt cool to the touch when we arrived, sweaty from playing in the street. Back then, Venezuela smelled of freshly brewed coffee and new tarmac. The house in Catia was the refuge where the Andean chill we carried in our souls was warmed by the neighbourhood’s warmth and the solidarity of the few neighbours we had back then. I remember once, a rooster chased me and I fell into the pit Dad was digging for the septic tanks; another time I fell into a water well, and thank goodness Dad was nearby because he pulled me out straight away.

My brother Henry still lives within those very walls today. Sometimes, when I speak to him via video call, I can feel the echo of our childhood laughter bouncing off the parapet. It is a structure that has withstood the test of time, the tremors of the earth and those of life itself. That house is our family’s diary, written not in ink, but with the exact mixture of sand, water and determination that my father prepared every morning.

To walk through the memories of that home today is to understand that we did not grow up in an anonymous block of flats, but in a handmade work of art. We grew up in a house that has a pulse, that breathes through its windows and that holds, in the frieze of its walls, the DNA of a man who taught us that, for a home to be eternal, it must be made of fine materials and unconditional devotion.

Today, with the benefit of hindsight, I look back and realise that my father didn’t just leave us a terraced house; he left us the moral foundation upon which we still stand today. Henry looks after the walls, but we all carry within us the original design of that home that saw us grow up.

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