The painful sound of the alarm started again at 6:15am. Charlotte knew that if she pressed the snooze button one more time, her mother would come angrily knocking on her door, yelling that she had to hurry up if she wanted to make it to school on time. Of course her mother would also be yelling in the car on their way there, mad at her for not being able to wake up on time to have a proper breakfast.

“You are 10 years old, Charlie! You are at the most important stage of your growth, if you keep having pre-packed chocolate milk for breakfast you’ll end up being a short and skinny teenager. You don’t want to be the shortest on your class, do you?”  Charlie imagined her mother angrily scolding her. She still hesitated on wether she should jump in the shower or sleep for 15 more minutes, she decided for the lather.

Charlotte finally woke up at about 7:00 am in panic, rushing to the bathroom to get ready, she was so late for school and she was surprised that her mother didn’t wake her up. When she was ready and walked down the stairs, her mother called her from the kitchen and on her way there she looked through the patio crystal doors, what she could make of it was completely trashed, her father’s spice garden was underwater and a bunch of branches from the big tree she loved to climb were creeping up from the waving pool the rain had formed, the dog’s house could be seen floating on the far end of the patio. Charlie grabbed her backpack straps with all her strength, she was scared and tears started to pour from her eyes because her dog Cyrus was nowhere to be seen on the big pool her patio was now. She knew how much he hated swimming and water in general, so she ran to the kitchen wit tears on her eyes. 

“What’s wrong Charlie?” Amelia, Charlotte’s mother, asked. 
“Cyrus, mom! Theres a pool where our patio used to be and and and…” She tried to continue, but she was interrupted by her older brother entering the room with Cyrus on his arms. 
“Cyrus!” Charlie dropped her back pack and took the little chihuahua from her brother, hugging him tightly.
“Can Cyrus drive me to school with you, mommy?” She said, while putting him down.
“Honey, school has been canceled.” Her mother said, leaving out the fact that it was because the storm left much of the city flooded. All the rivers overflowed and streams became so big, people had to evacuate their homes. 

Charlie started jumping excitedly. Then she had her breakfast with her parents and brother, and when she finished she asked her mom for permission to change back to her pajamas and watch cartoons. Amelia told her to clean her plate first and then she could go change and watch tv in the family room.

When the girl entered the tv room the first thing she noticed was the blinds were down, so she proceeded to put them up and as soon as she did she let out a scared gasp. Her home sat at a high point near the Santa Catarina river. It is a very long river that crosses through the heart of the city of Monterrey in México. Even though is a dry river, it has been filled on occasion with the help of some extraordinary hurricanes and storms, like hurricane Gilbert back in the 80s, but Charlie wasn’t even born when that happened. She was terrified whenever she watched movies about tornados, volcanos and hurricanes but in all her innocence she thought that since her city was surrounded by five giant mountains, it was protected against every natural disaster, but when she saw the violent flow of the river, her belief turned to pieces.

Amelia got into the room and saw her daughter standing in distress by the window so she turned the tv on and call her to sit by her side. While channel surfing a title on a foreign news channel caught her eye: 

“A second airplane has crashed on the World Trade Center” Read the title. Amelia immediately turned to see Charlie, knowing she was trying to distract her over-empathic girl from the tough reality of what had happened in their city that morning, only to watch her break over a bigger tragedy that happened somewhere else. 

What ever happened to John Brown

I don’t wanna imply anything mysterious happened to the vanished diner at Rothko’s on that Saturday night 3 years ago, but the things I found when trying to locate the guy who owned the phone and wallet left on the table are the epitome of a weird story. 

The almost clean plate he left made me think that I was being a victim of a dine-and-dash for the first time in 3 years working at this fairly known bistro, but as soon as I noticed the wallet I laughed to myself, thinking this was an amateur. What kind of idiot leaves his wallet when dine and dashing? While checking the IDs in the wallet I noticed a good amount of money, so maybe he wasn’t dashing, maybe he had to run somewhere else forgetting his belongings. So I made it a mission to find this guy when 3 days had passed and he didn’t come back looking for his stuff. 

As I walked to the address on the driver’s license in the wallet, I re-checked every card and ID and found very odd that he had 2 gym membership cards from different places and I remembered thinking he was very fit when I was tending to him at Rothko’s, so it came as no surprise that when he finally decided what to order, he chose the kale and salmon salad. I kept remembering my interactions with him at the restaurant, he seemed relaxed and not at all in a rush, he waited for the host to sit him at a kind of secluded area, as he asked for, and when I came to take his order he said he needed a minute to decide and asked me to refill his water glass. When I came back with the pitcher he asked some questions about a couple of things in the menu and started blushing looking a bit nervous when he thought he was taking too long deciding between the salad and a tomato soup, with a flustered face and what sounded like an honest apology he said he wanted the soup, and after a second “im sorry” he finally ordered the salad. 

Coming back from my memories I noticed the map said I was only a block away from the address, but something felt off. The neighborhood didn’t seem like a residential one, and when I arrived at the number on the address it belonged to a Laundr-O-Mat. The lady behind the counter told me she remembered this John Brown on the ID because one time it took him 45 minutes to choose between 4 different detergents. She said she knew nothing more about him so I decided I would try looking at one of the GYMs he was a member of. 

When I got to the gym I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It seemed like a very old building, it was empty and it looked like it has been for a while. But that couldn’t be, the issued date on the ID was from barely 6 months ago. When I saw an old man sitting outside the barber place next door I approached him to ask if he knew how to contact the Gym administration to get info on a John Brown who was a member there, but his answer only fueled more doubts.

“I don’t think that would be possible, young man. The GYM closed 35 years ago when Horace, the owner, skipped town without telling anyone and leaving all of his belongings behind. His wife looked for him until her dying day but not even me, being his best friend knew where he went or why he left. It was as if he just vanished”.

I went pale, it sounded just so familiar. I decided there and then there was no need to keep looking, John Brown knew quite well Rothko’s location, so I thought eventually he would go there to reclaim his forgotten belongings. And if anything strange happened, I didn’t want to be involved or know anything about it. I feel more comfortable not having an idea of what really goes on in a strange place like planet earth. 

The bleeding of Claire Adams

ENG

It was a rainy Sunday night, and I was sitting on the loveseat near the balcony window reading my favorite book of poems. Reading in the rain was a ritual my father, Adrien Adams passed down on me since I was a little kid, he was a writer and used to say “the only way to become a better writer was to become a better reader” – Oh! How I missed him -. I sat there for about an hour, hungrily devouring each page, turning one after another with great excitement but suddenly I turned one of them too quickly, causing a small cut to open on my thumb, it felt like a bee sting, burned me deeply, but I didn’t want to make a fuss out of a simple paper cut, so I kept reading until I fell asleep. 

The next morning I woke up to a pulsating pain coming from the small paper cut and when I looked down to it I found a small pool of blood coming from it, badly staining my loveseat. Scared and puzzled as to why such a small cut could cause all this bleeding, I put my book in my bag, took my car keys and drove as fast as I could to my doctor’s office, he was a long time friend of my father.

The doctor started examining the cut, he couldn’t believe that tiny cut was made with paper and bleeding this bad, he started asking me questions I had no answers for, he was as puzzled as I was, until he noticed the book poking out of my bag and read the words “By Adrien Adams”. It was then he understood the cut was not made by paper but by the heart wrenching words written on it, the poems my father used to write. Words about me and mom before him passing away, words that still to this day, 20 years after his passing, make my heart bleed inconsolably, words that cut like knives, some would say. 

ESP

Era una noche lluviosa de domingo, yo estaba sentada en el sillón más cercano a la ventana del balcón leyendo mi libro de poemas favorito. Leer bajo la lluvia era un ritual que mi padre, Adrien Adams, inculcó en mi desde que era muy pequeña. El era escritor y siempre decía que “La mejor manera de convertirte en un mejor escritor era convertirte en un mejor lector” -¡Cómo lo extrañaba!- Estuve sentada leyendo por poco más de una hora, devorando cada página, dando vuelta hoja tras hoja con gran fervor hasta que en un descuido le di la vuelta a una demasiado rápido causando una pequeña cortada en mi dedo pulgar. Se sintió como una picadura de abeja, me ardía profundamente pero no quise hacer un gran problema por una simple cortadura con papel, así que seguí leyendo hasta que me quedé dormida.

La mañana siguiente desperté con un dolor punzante que venía de la pequeña cortada y cuando miré en su dirección pude notar un pequeño charco de sangre manchando el sillón donde me había quedado dormida. Perpleja y algo asustada, metí el libro en mi bolsa, tomé las llaves del coche y me dirigí a toda prisa a el consultorio de mi médico de cabecera, un amigo de la infancia de mi padre. 

El doctor comenzó a examinar el corte en mi piel, no podría explicarse cómo una cortada con papel podía causar toda esa sangre, comenzó a hacerme preguntas para las cuales yo no tenía respuestas, el estaba tan perplejo o más que yo. De pronto notó un libro asomándose fuera de mi bolsa y pudo leer las palabras “Por Adrien Adams” y fue en ese momento que comprendió que el corte y desangre consecuente no había sido causado por una simple hoja de papel, si no por las emotivas y desgarradoras palabras que mi padre solía escribir sobre mi y mi madre antes de su muerte, palabras que aún hoy, después de 20 años, hacen que se me desangre el corazón inconsolablemente, palabras que cortan como cuchillos, dirían algunos. 

Gabriel And The Dark

ENG

It was about to be the darkest hour of the night. Gabriel tried adjusting his sight in the middle of the gloom that surrounded his room; his dreams had been interrupted by a strepitous crash sound that made him jump out of bed. Even though he was very much afraid of the dark he decided to go down the stairs to the first floor and try to find what all the fuss was about. He decided to check all the rooms one by one, he had inspected most of the first floor, only one bulb left to turn on: the one in the kitchen. As soon as the light came on, Gabriel observed a strange dark lump hiding under the table and when he bent down he could define that it was a cat and the fact made him shudder, for he had no pets.

Puzzled, he started stepping back a little and the Cat approached him with a slow and steady step. The light illuminating what Gabriel thought was a vision was suddenly extinguished and all he could see now was the glowing green eyes of the mysterious creature.

 “Are you afraid of a simple pet, Gabriel?” He heard the cat say, thinking that perhaps it was all the product of his active imagination and widening his eyes he continued stepping back little by little all the while he pinched himself to make sure he was not dreaming. 

One, two, three pinches…

 “Im awake!” He said aloud with a tone of surprise and disbelief. 

 “This is not a dream, Gabriel. I’ve been watching you for a while now, your moves, your swings, your habits, your secrets, I know them all! Your biggest fear is the dark, but oh boy! You have no idea what darkness is!” Said the cat as he walked towards him. “But why should you fear it? I will tell you about true darkness, the one that rules the damned and has nothing to do with candles, bulbs and lanterns. Darkness is the absence of light, yes, it can be in a space, a room or it can be in an open field ant that terrifies only cowards, like yourself. But do you know anything about the existence of darkness in beings? Here’s the truth on darkness: When there is an absence of light in the soul, that is creepy. It is terrifying to think that for there to be darkness first there had to be light, could you only imagine the terrible events that would lead a human to lose their light? This causes real chills more so than darkness itself. 

  “Why are you telling me all of this” Gabriel asked, having accepted the fact that this Cat could talk, as if talking to it was the most natural thing to do.

Meanwhile, the animal ran in tGabriel’s opposite direction, getting lost between the shadows. 

Desperate and confused Gabriel tried turning the light back on – and it worked-, only to find what was supposed to be his reflection on the window, yet the man staring back at him seemed different, malevolent. On one hand he carried the corpse of a black cat and on the other a bloody knife, with which it had apparently been killed. That couldn’t be Gabriel, the coward who is afraid of the dark, or could it?

ESP

Entraba la hora más oscura de la noche. Los ojos de Gabriel trataban de ajustarse a la penumbra que envolvía la habitación; sus sueños habían sido interrumpidos por un estruendo que incluso le sacó de la cama de un salto. Con todo y el inmenso miedo que le tenía a la oscuridad, decidió bajar a el primer piso de su casa para verificar qué era lo que había sucedido. El chico se dedicó a revisar habitación por habitación, había ya inspeccionado casi todo el primer piso, solo le faltaba un bombillo por encender: el de la cocina. En cuanto se hizo la luz, Gabriel observó un bulto que se escondía debajo de la mesa y al agacharse pudo definir que se trataba de un gato y esto le hizo estremecer; no tenía mascotas. 

Desconcertado, retrocedió un poco y el Gato con paso lento y firme se le aproximó. La luz que iluminaba las visiones de Gabriel de pronto se extinguió y todo lo que veía ahora eran los brillantes ojos verdes de la misteriosa criatura.

– ¿Le temes a un simple animal doméstico, Gabriel? – Escuchó decir al gato, pensando que tal vez todo era producto de su imaginación y con los ojos bien abiertos continúo sus pequeños pasos en retroceso, al tiempo que se pellizcaba para asegurarse de que todo lo que estaba sucediéndole no era un sueño. Uno, dos, tres pellizcos

-¡Estoy despierto! – Dijo en voz alta con un tono de sorpresa e incredulidad.-

– Esto no es un sueño, Gabriel. Te he estado observando por un tiempo ya, tus vaivenes, tus hábitos, tus secretos, ¡los conozco todos!. Tu miedo más grande es la oscuridad, pero ¡muchacho! Tú no tienes ni idea de que es la oscuridad. – Le dijo el gato mientras avanzó de nuevo en dirección a el. – Pero, ¿Por qué le has de temer? Te hablaré de oscuridad verdadera, esa que rige a los condenados y que con velas, bulbos y linternas no tiene nada que ver. La oscuridad es ausencia de luz, puede ser en un espacio, una habitación o un campo abierto y eso a cobardes como tú les aterra, pero, ¿Sabes tú de la existencia de la oscuridad en los seres? Te hablaré de verdadera oscuridad: Cuando es ausencia de luz en el alma, eso si que es espeluznante.  Es aterrador el pensar que para que exista oscuridad, tuvo primero que haber luz, ¿Podrías imaginar los eventos terribles que llevarían a alguien a perder su luz? Esto causa aún más escalofríos que la oscuridad misma. 

-¿Por qué me hablas de esto? – Preguntó el muchacho, habiendo aceptado el hecho de que el gato podía hablar, como si conversar con el fuera lo mas natural. Mientras tanto, el animal corrió en dirección opuesta de Gabriel, perdiéndose entre las sombras. 

Desesperado y confundido Gabriel encendió la luz, solo para encontrarse con lo que se supone debía ser su reflejo en la ventana, pero el hombre mirándolo de regreso lucía distinto, malévolo. En una mano cargaba el cadáver de gato negro y en la otra un cuchillo ensangrentado, con el cual probablemente se le había dado muerte. Ese no podía ser Gabriel, el cobarde que le tiene miedo a la oscuridad, ¿o si?.

The one for the Long Lost Forgotten/El que es para los Perdidos y Olvidados

ENG

It was a regular autumn morning, the air was cold but the sun still shined willing to warm whomever dared to stand right under it. A woman woke up with discomfort painting her face. 

“A nightmare”, She said.

 But deep down inside, she knew it was way more than just a simple bad dream, she could sense a gut feeling growing inside of her, and tears started covering her cheeks.

The woman knew she craved it, her body was aching to feel it again: the tingling, the fast heart beatings, the walking on clouds. She wanted to hold it one more time, even if just for a minute she wanted to feel it, it would suffice, all the pain and fallout are worth it for just one more second of that high.

She then got out of bed, she got ready in front of her vanity and again she went out in search of it and even though she was hopeful this time she might find it and be able to hold it forever, she wasn’t afraid anymore of it soon becoming just one more of the long lost ones, because all she desired was to never forget how it made her feel.

ESP

Era una mañana otoñal como cualquier otra, el aire fresco pero el sol aún brillaba cálidamente para cualquiera que se atreviera a posársele debajo. Una mujer se despertó con incomodidad pintándole el rostro.

– Una pesadilla – dijo para sí.

Pero en el fondo, ella sabía que era mucho más que un simple mal sueño, tenía un presentimiento dentro de ella y las lágrimas comenzaron a cubrirle las mejillas.

La mujer sabía que lo añoraba, el cuerpo dolía de esperar por sentirlo de nuevo, el cosquilleo, los veloces latidos del corazón, la caminata entre nubes. Ella quería tenerlo una vez más, aún que fuera solo un minuto quería sentirlo, eso sería suficiente. Todo el dolor y el sentimiento de eterna caída valdrían la pena por solo un pequeño segundo, una dosis más.

Entonces se puso de pie, se arregló frente al tocador y de nuevo salió a buscarlo y aún que guardaba la esperanza que esta vez pudiera sostenerlo para siempre, no sintió más temor de que pronto se convirtiera en uno más de los perdidos, porque lo único que en verdad deseaba era jamás olvidar lo que eso le hacía sentir. 

23 Pope Street

I still remember her house on Pope Street. The white walls, the creaking of wood on the fire escape stairs, the ones she used to go down on to go out and smoke in the back door that led to the parking lot. I still have the Polaroid I took of her on that place.
Her neighbors were like characters out of a drama produced to scare teenagers with the outcome of drug and alcohol abuse. I wake up between dreams sometimes to the sound of their doors creaking between screams and laments.

Perhaps my mind was distracted by the immaculate white snow winter snowfalls brought, wanting to beat spring, it was a cold February, loaded with the fear of slipping on an icy path because I did not have the proper footwear for Boston’s weather, perhaps everything that was happening in nature around me put the soft blindfold on my eyes; I can even imagine the pair of birds that on a low flight directed it to my face carrying it on their beaks.

Then came summer, and the secret place she showed me for the first time back in winter, the one a few blocks from her house, no longer looked like a movie set: the train tracks that were hidden in a small tree-lined path, trees without leaves and covered with snow and ice had been replaced by green, green leaves on the trees that surrounded the area, green grass, tall grass with an evident life of its own covered the entire site, and I should have realized it, but the excitement of going to White Horse Beach in Plymouth and Salem to “meet witches” tightened the knot on the blindfold. 

We came back from little road trips and on July 4th we sat in Charles River Park to admire the firework show, what better birthday eve could someone under the zodiac sign of Cancer have asked for? But I am a Sagittarius, and for me, it was the beginning of a catharsis. With each burst of pyrotechnics I felt the knot on the blindfold losen its strength, with each sparkle an alarm jumped inside my head, I knew it, I was sure, but she hugged me, as if there was nothing else, as if she never wanted me to get out of her arms. 

Flowers. A huge vase, not at all cute by the way, full of flowers that were not even her favorites along with an anonymous note were waiting for us at her door as we returned from her birthday dinner celebration on July 5th, and even though I knew it for a long time, the blindfold finally fell and I could see it all: The dirty hand stains on the white walls all over the house, the rotten wood on the escape stairs that made it creak and smell like a horror film, the rusty doors on her neighbors apartments, those same neighbors that were living lives of characters that only in books and movies I had encounter.
I did not belong there, my place was not in that black hole of pity and decadence, 23 Pope Street was a haunted house and even today the suction force of the black hole that lives there still haunts me in my nightmares, but it could not swallow me, I fled from there on time and even though that mysterious-looking house filled with memories that hurt continues to appear in my nightmares, it can no longer harm me, its power over me evaporated and it remained only as that: broken dreams that became gruesome harmless nightmares.

El veintitrés de la Calle Pope

Aún recuerdo su casa en la calle Pope. Las paredes blancas, el crujir de la madera en las escaleras del escape de incendios, esas que usaba para bajar y salir a fumar en la puerta de atrás que daba al estacionamiento. Todavía guardo la polaroid que le tomé en ese lugar. 
Sus vecinos eran como salidos de un drama producido para espantar adolescentes con los resultados del abuso de las drogas y el alcohol. Me despierta entre mis sueños el sonido de sus puertas rechinando entre gritos y lamentos.

Quizás mi mente estaba distraída por la inmaculada nieve blanca que traían las nevadas del invierno queriendo ganarle a la primavera, fue un febrero frío y cargado con el miedo de resbalar en un camino helado por no contar con el calzado adecuado para el clima de Boston, quizás todo lo que sucedía en la naturaleza a mi al rededor me colocaba la suave venda en los ojos; Hasta puedo imaginarme al par de aves que en un vuelo bajo la dirigían a mi rostro cargándola en sus picos. 

Luego vino el verano, y aquel lugar secreto que me mostró por vez primera en invierno a unas cuadras de su casa ya no lucía como de película: las vías del tren que se escondían en un pequeño camino enramado, con árboles sin hojas y cubiertos de nieve y hielo habían sido sustituidos por verde, hojas verdes en los árboles que cubrían el paraje, hierva verde, hierva alta y evidentemente con una vida propia cubría todo el sitio, y yo debí darme cuenta, pero la emoción de ir a la playa White Horse en Plymouth y a Salem a “conocer brujas” apretaban más el nudo de la venda. 

Regresamos de pequeños viajes por carretera y el 4 de julio nos sentamos en el parque Charles River a ver el show de fuegos artificiales, ¿qué mejor víspera de cumpleaños hubiera podido tener alguien bajo el signo zodiacal de Cáncer? Pero yo soy Sagitario, y para mi era el inicio de una catarsis. Con cada estallido de pirotecnia sentía el nudo en la venda perder su fuerza, con cada destello una alarma brincaba dentro de mi cabeza, yo lo sabía, estaba segura, pero se abrazaba a mi, como si no hubiera nada más, como si no quisiera que jamás me fuera de sus brazos. 

Flores. Un gran jarrón, nada lindo por cierto, lleno de flores que ni siquiera eran sus favoritas nos esperaba al regreso de la cena en la que festejamos su cumpleaños 33 el 5 de Julio, y aún que lo sabía desde un tiempo atrás, la venda por fin se cayó y  pude verlo todo: Las manchas de manos sucias en las paredes blancas por toda la casa, la madera podrida en las escaleras del escape que la hacían crujir y oler a filme de terror, las puertas oxidadas de los vecinos con vidas de personajes que solo en libros y películas había conocido. Yo no pertenecía ahí, mi lugar no era en ese hoyo negro de lástima y decadencia, el veintitrés de la calle Pope era una casa embrujada y aún que todavía el día de hoy me persigue en pesadillas la fuerza de succión del hoyo negro que vive ahí dentro no logró tragarme, huí de ahí y aún que esa casa de aspecto misterioso llena de memorias que dolieron sigue apareciendo en mis pesadillas, ya no puede hacerme daño, su poder sobre mi se evaporó y quedó solo en eso: sueños rotos que se volvieron pesadillas. 

The lies we tell ourselves.

You feel your spine tingling, after every thought of her. She takes up for all the space in your mind and you feel at a complete loss for words.

You imagine her, going about her day as if she have never met you and it frustrates you to an edging point, there’s nothing you can do. For her, you’re just gone. She probably cant even remember your face, and here you are, with every inch of her body printed in your memory like a poem you recited with your classmates on the first grade.

Time has passed, didn’t they say this would get easier? Didn’t they say the episodes would last lesser and lesser as months passed you by?

Your eyes are filled up with tears, but you just cant cry, its just not in your body’s design to do so; its been a while. You cried in front of her on that last night, wishing you hadn’t drink as much as you did. But after a couple hours, you ran out of tears, there were just no more of them. The whole weekend you tried to cry again, but it was just impossible, as it has been for the following 7 months.

Is the build up coming? Are you going to just snap and breakdown one day? Hard to say, it might happen, but it might not. All you know is you haven’t been writing, not even your twisted version of fiction as an outlet and that, my darling, is killing you from within.

When would her face start fading? You ask yourself, not knowing the answer. It’s not that you’ve never been here before, its just that you don’t remember how it made you feel. How you missed the feeling but not really the person, how even when the face was gone, the longing for the feeling never went away. And you crave it, the feeling. How does it feel? You barely remember, you tell yourself you don’t know anymore: but its there, and you lie to yourself yet again in the name of protecting whats inside.

RESBALADERO

Cerca de la casa donde crecí hay un parque donde yo solía jugar. Mis mejores recuerdos de la infancia son en ese lugar ahora viejo y descuidado, con juegos de metal corroídos por la oxidación y un césped que no han cortado en varios meses. Pasaba horas en ese parque, resbalándome hasta el cansancio en mi favorito resbaladero. Hasta la fecha no hay una sensación que se compare a la que me daba estar ahí; de pie en la cima, con el sol pegando por la espalda a mi pequeño cuerpecito y una sonrisa resplandeciendo en mi cara, preparándome para el descenso veloz que terminaría con mis piernas moviéndose rápida y entorpecidamente con la inercia de la caída, solo para continuar corriendo de regreso a los escalones que me llevarían una vez más al punto más alto de todo el parque.

 

Mis padres me heredaron esa casa cerca del parque hace un par de años, y desde que me mudé de regreso a ella, todos los días paso por el parque rumbo a mi desgastante trabajo. Me inunda la tristeza, no hay un solo niño nunca en ese sitio, la hierba está ya tan alta que por poco alcanza los columpios y cubre ya buena parte de los sube y baja; la imponente resbaladilla que un día me causó tantas alegrías está ahí, inmóvil; sin un pequeño conquistador o conquistadora que suba a la cima con la adrenalina a tope, listo para deslizarse a la aventura. Al pensar en mi a los 7 años en esa cúspide cierro los ojos con una mueca sonriente en los labios. Puedo escuchar aún los gritos de los demás niños jugando y corriendo por los senderos del parque, recorriéndolo como exploradores esperando descubrir un tesoro nunca antes visto; las tiernas madres empujando en los columpios a sus hijos quienes llenos de felicidad ríen a carcajadas incapaces de contener el gozo de sentir el viento en la cara con el vaivén del columpio, sin más preocupación que ser niño. Al abrir los ojos mi imaginación me gasta una broma y puedo ver un pequeño cuerpo en la cumbre del resbaladero resplandeciendo con el sol a sus espaldas; se me revuelve el estómago y no tengo certeza si se trata de la nostalgia o tal vez del sándwich de atún que desayuné en la mañana antes de salir con rumbo al trabajo.