in memory of Maria
Perhaps the sign was our hair of our meeting. The outward signs charge effect when the souls are not yet known. I'll probably just look for the first time, I remember riding a horse with long braids and look defiant. Although the truth of that memory, has more to do with a brown mule, you almost always look sad and shy, but always with these beautiful hair weaving your hair.
The existence of yours has always been a mystery, I arrived on August every year in a provincial bus, crossed the stone bridge amazed at this new place, so small and old where it happened and now both so little to fear dying of boredom. I feel you did not like the visits, because when wood was playing that little door corroded by rain and wind you and you were gone early at the farm. Always in your work did not spare one day solar calendar, highlighting the laziness that accompanies me to these times.
or not I met you by chance, how I met Ofelia in her tears, as I did with Magnolia in its arrogance, but you were going to make the connection with my present. I never knew I sensed your pain nor your joys, your relationship with summarized: a simple August each year, shy glances, to unknown thoughts, a kiss on the cheek, or earthenware dinner and warm bread. Of course I wanted, I wanted as a grandson loves the unknown that comes from afar to bother a sad life in the Andes from Cusco. I wanted to silence the senses, like the Andean love so hurt and starts crying.
Back a few years later as a teenager and learned. So is the age of consciousness tasteless, stupid and stubborn I was wondering how this arrogant teenager had spent so little known. You were in front sentadito Welcome preparing food in a kitchen with wood fire clay, speaking on so sweet a language not understood. It is hard to miss the roast rabbit you handle yourself trapped in the recesses of the room, there was much mystery as prepared by either by language or herbs that dragged them out of a wooden box. I always thought that was a magical stew recipe that made me special.
do not think I remember, you were very drunk that day of our birthday. It was a beautiful morning, do not miss your magic recipe, or Andean melodies that accompanied the fall of night. The guests cheered as the liquor ran their bodies and the two danced like never before do it again. Huaynos old sad that only you dared to sing and dance in the privacy of the field. That night was the exception to our lives, your song, my dance, that night I was born to my past and you enfold me with that red poncho. Know that I let go of the red poncho in many years, took place as it walked, ran or crawled until he lost his color and it became frayed inside me, your memory, the memory of where I come from, the love my past.
