He was my father’s uncle, really
but all of us got used to calling him Tío.
He had retired by the time I met him
but he had been a fireman;
he had risked his life most of his life
in a small town outside of Buenos Aires

What I remember most is his voice
because it was so rare to hear him speak,
and when he did, what he said would never cause
either injury or awe, so it was hard to remember;
still I’m convinced he was not shy but infinitely mindful 
of what may leave or may enter when you open your door

He would stand, making unwavering eye contact
with whoever took their turn telling a story,
looking almost interested, and smile.
Other than his voice, it is his smile that I remember

the earnestness of his lips gradually forming it
the strength it must have taken
to bring the smile slowly to the surface
through leagues of dark ocean
angry seahorses
memories of fires.