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The first is a classic composition of nine people. Even in this photo of her when she was young—caramel skin, dark eyes, dark hair, even more beautiful through the sepia, and wearing a two-piece bathing suit: the same as a bikini in the s— one could guess at her boldness. My grandmother, despite her twelve children or perhaps because of them , smiles from right to left, like a giant sunflower.
My grandfather seems to contemplate the infinite, as handsome as a gray ox; and my Aunt Emilia in her braids seems to sense the sadness of life. But even if I were already an adult, could I have helped them with what I know now about their lives? Could I have predicted their successes, their failures—could I have prophesied their deaths? Their slender, healthy bodies. So much energy in their stance! When did they stop boxing with life? In which round did they concede defeat? When did the sound of the bell make them sense the immutable?
Read e-book Mil noches sin dormir (Primeras palabras) (Spanish Edition)
He estado toda una tarde estudiando las fotos. He acumulado tantas en mi vida— pero hay dos particularmente que me interesan.
Esta es la familia de mi madre. De cuerpos esbeltos y sanos, los hombres con sus figuras de esgrimistas— siento nostalgia al mirar esta foto.
Again your heart thrown into the depth of the pool, prisoner once more among the waves closing a dream. Lie down as I do in this miserable eternity of one day. De estas aguas no beben las bestias del olvido. What remains of my childhood are the fragmentary visions of large patios extending like an oceanic green mist over the afternoon.
Then, crickets would forge in the wind their deep music of centuries and the purple fragrances of Grandmother always would receive without questions our return home. The hammock shivering in the breeze like the trembling voice of light at dusk, the unforeseeable future that would never exist without Mother, the Tall tales that filled with their most engaging lunar weight our days —all those unchangeable things— were the morning constellations that we would recognize daily without sadness.
In the tropical days we had no intuition of the winter nor of autumn, that often returns with pain in the shadows of this new territory —like the cold moving through our shivering hands— that I have learned to accept in the same way you welcome the uncertainty of a false and cordial smile. Those were the days of the solstice when the wind pushed the smoke from the clay ovens through the zinc kitchens and the ancient stone stoves clearly spoke of the secrets of our barefooted and wise Indian ancestors.
The beautiful, unformed rocks in our hands that served as detailed toys seemed to give us the illusion of fantastic events that invaded our joyful chants with infinite color. It was a life without seasonal pains, a life without unredeemable time a life without the somber dark shadows that have intently translated my life that slowly move today through my soul.
But it ended. I was told not to act Like it was some big dramatic moment. She swiveled on her heels like she twirled just The other day on a bar stool, the joy Gone out of it now.
Then she walked away. I called out to her once.
She slightly turned. I called out again. Today I picked up seven stones resembling birds and orphans in the dead sand. I looked at them as if they were offerings of uncommon times, as if they were seven endangered travelers. I wanted to be seven stones inside my skin, to be, for an instant, very round and smooth so somebody would pick me up and make clefts in my sides with the damp voice of the wind.
Significado de la palabra p - Blue English Spainish Dictionary
I wanted you to pick me up, to kiss me, so I could be a river stone in your estuary mouth. I keep the seven stones in my pocket. They make a mound in my hand and in my stories of absences, a mossy sound. To say goodbye means so little.
We said goodbye to childhood and it came after us like a dog tracking our steps. To say goodbye: to shut that obstinate door that refuses to remain closed, the persistent scar that oozes memory.
Dictionary of spoken Spanish
To say goodbye: to say no; who achieves it? Whoever found the magic key? Whoever found the point that slides us toward oblivion, the land that will extirpate the roots without remaining forever closed over them? Who knows the way that does not die in the well-traveled shortcut. Numbers trouble her, leave her stuck on ground zero. Already she knows a little Spanish, and you can teach her more of that. She lives for story time. In the beginning there was nothing. Then the green of quetzal wings.
Sometimes earthly villages pass, hoarse trains make camp, a couple piles marvelous oranges at the edge of the sea, a single relic is spread through all space. My places would look like broken mirages, clippings of photographs torn from an album to orient nostalgia, but they have roots deeper than this sinking ground, these fleeing doors, these vanishing walls. Who cleans the windowpane with her breath and stirs the fire of the afternoon in those rooms where the table was an altar of idolatry, each chair, a landscape folded up after every trip, and the bed, a stormy short cut to the other shore of dreams, rooms deep as nets hung from the sky, like endless embraces I slid down till I brushed the feathers of death, until I overturned the laws of knowledge and the fall of man?
Who goes into the parks with the golden breath of each Christmas and washes the foliage with a little gray rag that was the handkerchief for waving goodbye, and reweaves the garlands with a thread of tears, repeating a fantastic ritual among smashed wine glasses and guests lost in thought, while she savors the twelve green grapes of redemption— one for each month, one for each year, one for each century of empty indulgence— a taste acid but not as sharp as the bread of forgetfulness?
Because who but I changes the water for all the memories? Who inserts the present like a slash into the dreams of the past? Who switches my ancient lamps for new ones?
orsocurtosink.cf My most beautiful hiding places are solitary sites where no one goes, and where there are shadows that only come to life when I am the magician. It is a July night scented with gardenias. The moon and stars shine hiding the essence of the night. As darkness fell —with its deepening onyx shadows and the golden brilliance of the stars— my mother put the garden, her house, the kitchen, in order. Now, as she sleeps, I walk in her garden immersed in the solitude of the moment.
I have forgotten the names of many trees and flowers and there used to be more pines where orange trees flower now. Tonight I think of all the skies I have pondered and once loved. Tonight the shadows around the house are kind. The sky is a camera obscura projecting blurred images. Es una noche de julio perfumada de gardenias. La luna y las estrellas brillan sin revelar la esencia de la noche. Esta noche las sombras alrededor de la casa son benignas.