Posts Tagged ‘Family’

“PENDING MATTERS”

August 29, 2026
Ricardo F. Morín
Temple of Zeus Underwater
CGI
2003

The siblings had spent many years trying to conclude matters that had survived both of their parents.  Their father had died nearly three decades earlier.  Their mother died years after him, and even then the responsibilities did not end.  Properties remained unsold.  Before those matters were completed, another loss entered the family.  The middle sister died the year before.  Her own property and affairs now had to be incorporated into responsibilities that had already extended across many years.

Old registries and chains of title extending into the nineteenth century carried certifications, seals, and annotations from different decades and governments.

The country itself had changed during the last three decades.  Currency and property lost value before transactions could be completed.  Offices closed and reopened under different regulations, sometimes even under different names.

To release properties, formalize transfers, and liquidate assets, it became necessary to gather records, certifications, and documentary chains that different offices and fiscal authorities required for review.  Procedures stalled among administrative demands, fiscal obligations, and intermediaries capable of accelerating processes that otherwise could remain paralyzed for months.  Files accumulated beside seals, signatures, and annotations originating from different decades.

The matters had already extended across months and years.  Meanwhile the siblings aged separately on opposite sides of the Atlantic.  The oldest, still practicing law in Venezuela, continued moving between courts, registries, and offices in pursuit of unresolved claims and transfers.

At the same time, land previously belonging to the family remained tied to a legal dispute after having been illegally expropriated by the State years earlier.  Defending the claim required certifications, archival records, legal filings, authorizations, appeals, and countersuits.  Municipal fees, taxes, and procedural costs continued accumulating while the responsibilities themselves remained unfinished.

From outside the country, it was possible to perceive only partially how procedures there changed from month to month and sometimes from day to day.  Some introduced further demands.  Others became unavailable altogether.  Another day had already been spent moving between offices, registries, and courts.

Messages moved constantly between them through calls, forwarded emails, receipts, scanned documents, explanations, and reminders.  One sibling asked whether a payment could still be completed before another increase in tax fees made the transfer even more burdensome.  The reply listed offices already visited that week and certifications still missing.  Before the question returned again, the exchange had shifted toward an earlier disagreement others believed had already been resolved.

The second oldest, who had left Venezuela many years earlier, explained to one sibling that reminders concerning powers of attorney were meant to prevent delays.  To another, he explained that unanswered messages were beginning to be understood differently.  One sibling wrote late into the night to avoid misunderstanding.  Another answered briefly the next morning before returning to the offices.

A signature believed to be sufficient was later rejected for lacking an additional authentication no one had mentioned before.  One office requested papers already sent weeks earlier.  Another confirmed receipt but could not say when the matter would be reviewed.  A delayed response no longer remained only a delay.

Some questions received partial replies.  Others were acknowledged and left unanswered.  A message asking whether the funds could still be sent before the end of the month received only this reply:  “We are doing what we can from here.”  Another asking whether the property sale documents had already been submitted received a response about summer travel plans and whether the necessary signature would still be available in time.

He remembered a childhood game in which a sentence passed from one person to another until it returned altered, sometimes accidentally and sometimes not.  At the time, the changes were part of the amusement.

When he attempted to describe some of this, one sibling told him that he was philosophizing again.  The remark was mild enough to avoid argument, yet the explanation did not continue after that.

A requirement completed one week returned the next with another condition attached to it.

A message revised several times before being sent remained unanswered for days.  Another received only a brief acknowledgment that did not refer to what had actually been written.  By the time the next reply arrived, what had gone unanswered in the earlier message had already begun shaping the exchange that followed.

Later, a message arrived saying that one of the unresolved matters had finally been completed.  No one referred to what had preceded the resolution.  The exchanges resumed in a calmer tone, and attention moved toward whatever remained pending.

Ricardo F. Morín, May 7, 2026, Bala Cynwyd, PA.


“A Table Between Us”

February 16, 2025

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Silent Diptych
by Ricardo Morín
Medium: Oil On Linen
Size: 18 by 28 by 3/4 inches
Year: 2010

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Prologue

Silent Diptych is not an illustration but a resonance—a meditation on silence, not as emptiness, but as a state of receptivity.     It is the space where judgment dissolves, where human connection lingers between words, where meaning is felt rather than spoken.     In its stillness, it holds what remains unresolved.     Some silences are quiet.     Others are filled with history.

RFMT

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Our early dinner followed a matinee of “Parade”, a musical steeped in history, in indignity, in the weight of a life taken and a verdict that still hung unresolved.     At the table, we spoke of Leo Frank, the Jewish man lynched in Georgia a century ago–pardoned decades later but never absolved.     His true killer never pursued.

Three of us were Jewish.     They understood, in ways the rest of us could only acknowledge but never quite embody, the particular pain of being made a scapegoat.     The others sympathized but could not feel the same alienation—not in the marrow, not in the inherited way history imprints itself on some more than others.

It was a conversation of weight, but not of sorrow.     We spoke with the clarity that comes when facts are long settled but their reverberations remain.

Then came the interruption.

The woman at the next table turned to us with a question, her voice cutting easily through our discussion.

“Where are the girls?”

I glanced at my companions, the six of us settled comfortably into the familiarity of one another.

“What girls?” I asked, not unkindly.

She blinked, as if expecting the answer to be self-evident.

“We’re already married to each other,” I said.

She turned away without another word.

There was no need to dwell on it.     The moment was familiar.     A minor encounter, the sort that barely registered after years of knowing exactly how the world could tilt in response to our presence.

To shift the conversation, I said, “Freud might say that all relationships are attempts to resolve unfinished business with our parents.”

Someone smirked. A fork was set down.     A momentary silence, not of discomfort, but of consideration.

“Men with their fathers, women with their mothers,” I continued.

The responses were mixed.     Agreement.     Deflection.     A shift in tone.     Some spoke of failing to meet their fathers’ expectations.     Some spoke of hatred.     Some of detachment.     Some of nothing at all.

I mentioned my father.     His certainty that we, his children, would not know how to survive without him.     He meant economically, of course.     His generation had its own understanding of what it meant to endure.

“How many siblings do you have?” someone asked.

“Five,” I said.     “Including my younger sister, who just passed away.”    A pause.    “She was angelic.”    “Sixty-nine.”        

There was sympathy, warm and immediate.    A moment held just long enough.

And then, as if on cue, the conversation shifted—easily, instinctively.     To theater.     To Tony Awards.     To the life and talent of voices long gone but forever recorded.

At the next table, the woman was laughing now, the moment between us already forgotten on her end.

And we, too, were laughing—at something lighter, something that did not ask to be examined too closely.

The moment stayed, unnoticed, but not forgotten.

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Epilogue

Like the painting, the moment lingered—not demanding resolution, but waiting, quietly, to be understood.   The weight of history, the subtleties of belonging, the pauses in conversation where truth is felt but not spoken.   Silence, in the end, is never empty.   It is the space where everything remains.

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Ricardo F. Morín Tortolero

February 16, 2025; Oakland Park, Florida


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