In the first half

 

The sun almost pierces my eyes. I've always avoided the intense light. With sunglasses. But I didn't bring them with me. As he tells me to look for the source of the problem, I shake my head negatively. I keep shaking. Not because I refuse, but only because there are no visible answers. The sun continues to invade the space, now piercing through the grapevines she had in her backyard. Ringworm. She doesn't have it anymore. Although I don't know her, just as I know her, I know her to be dead for a long time. She is dead, but surely, the vine is still there, exposed to the fury and meekness of time that never has compassion for anything or anyone. Backyards don't die, I know, today. And today I put out the cigarette on that floor, where I can still remember, with clear accuracy, my worn and comfortable sneakers, the jeans of almost-everyday, and my beautiful and light hair, even lighter from the sun pulled in a practical ponytail (and the very wiggle I tell you about). There, in that backyard fifteen years ago, there were no answers to the questions he asked. Not even for me. Just the sound of the voices of the elderly who were waiting for their turn. And the recurring shaking of the head that gave rhythm to my sneakers on the dry earth, leaning against the pool of shadows that I was in, as if my body could weigh eternities. I asked him to bring me back to this cool, comfortable room today, as the Celtic sounds rose and fell. But I wanted more. And the water-immersed face of my aunt, once young but for me old - who at 30 years old all people are old in the opinion of 20-year-olds - with half-closed eyes where only thick and straight black hair curls scares me, falling next to another face that I will not forget, even if it lives a thousand years. Forgiveness, a thousand lives. Or is this a big lie, or on the other hand, a kind of key to everything else? I don't know, but I feel the fear in the pores of my skin.