Every story starts somewhere.

Kintsugi started with coffee and cake with my dad, in a small coffee shop in the Pompeia Shopping, where I took him to have some pastries during one of my visits to Brazil after my final move to Germany.

His hands shook as he held the empanada, and he had to use a paper napkin to hold it and bring it to his mouth as his fingers at lost much of their strength and the warm pastry hurt his fingers.

It was in that moment that I realized how fragile my dad really was, and that my time with him was running out.

He had asked me to write his stories but I had taken my time, teasing him that I was just enjoying listening to his causus over and over as he dipped his toast in the coffee.

But that afternoon, I stared at him forlornly and realized that he would soon die, taken from a disease that had weakened his legs, eaten away his muscles and reduced the Goliath from my childhood into a walking dead man, who could barely stand on his own.

And as I dug around my memories to write down his stories, I realized that in telling his stories, I was also telling mine.

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