Today I bring you a micro-book, I hope you like it. And excuse the absence ... I tell you that I dance salsa casino, and it is full with the essays of the choreo. Greetings to all, a hug. "Practice makes the teacher" translated into Creole, "He who calls fiebruo is the one who goes far" (give your example in the comments)
He must see the trees, the leaves and the sky, but his eyes have neither a cloud nor a sky. She has closed them open and looks at herself, and maybe she thinks about it so bad that it saddens her so much. Or remember. Only that, which is almost the same.
Maybe it was in the buneo that it would have been to be happy when I was young and Dad was young and she could see herself without fear in the mirror, without nostalgia for the bodies and faces left by her own body.
I say: Hey, mom, why do not you come with us to the movies? And she looks at Dulce. He looks at his hands and responds: No. Go there. It does not provoke me.
I remember, Sweet, when Mom would get sad and sit on the couch. I was about five years old and I was looking at her surreptitiously because I knew that if she found me spying, she would retire to the kitchen or ask me to go out into the street or into the garden. --Anda-- he told me. Come on, go play with percho, who was a friend who lived on the same street. But it did not come out. I took nothing, if I played, I felt I should not play if Mom was sad in the chair. And percho could not help me much. The day I asked him about his parents, he ate the techniques he had and drowned. And it is that the parents of Percho did not live with him.
--What's wrong?
That's why I preferred to stay in the sauce, Sweet, hidden under the table. I felt that if I looked at her for a long time with good luck, it would get in her eyes and give you good luck. But mamà, aepnas looked at me, closed my eyes and did not let anyone in. Then he opened them, like now, and he told me: go play with Percho.
It was a very slow look, Sweet, very slow, little bit. I do not know if his eyes had clouds or clouds, but they were two very sad eyes. Just opened.
And it was there, in the same chair, where he sat. Only the chair was not red. I remember it was flowered, but it was the same chair. Sometimes I sit down and look at the garden and tell myself: How will my mother see the sauce? How will you see me ...? but I do not get anything out of asking these things. The only thing I can get out is a bad afternoon for both of us, and that was not right. I also know that it is useless to think about her, because it is not the same: she is not young anymore. Now he's close to that and he's so sad. That we think nostrous when we do not feel too lonely or we are glad too much.
--Nothing.
If I stay at home, work to understand what happened between mom and dad and filled it with prefuntas.
One of them, the only one I remember was about the meaning of the word divorce. Mama answered anything, she gave me a chocolate and she was quite quiet like now. Only I was much younger. Do you understand, sweet?
Fixed: papà gives her jewelry, changes the car every year, invites her to the movies ... it is not the same. If one day she would tell you that she does not care about that so bad, that she sees it well ... Per is not that so? Do you understand? Suffer for that. I'm sure
That's why he answers you, it's nothing, sweet. That nothing happens. I know I'll regret tomorrow for having thought about it today, right now, when I had you when I had everything. But I can not help it: look at it. Notice. Move one foot You look at your hands. </ Center>
Author Franciso Massiani
