walked by that pine forest, arid and dry under the scorching sun
a Castilian end of August.
clothes for the funeral of the late
was not the most appropriate for that raid setting,
than those sandals that let grit and dust, to much longer.
Weeds hooked dry, merciless, the fabric of the pants, penetrating and digging randomly in our legs to walk. River fleas jumped in our way, sharpened by the smell of fresh meat.
walked in silence, looking down,
how robots with a single goal: reaching the oak
about 5 kms from the starting point.
found it, was that , the contour of the pointed cone.
We stopped.
Dad got the tools and he started to open the box,
first with a knife, then
screwdriver and hammer, hitting
thorough
edges trying to pry between the cracks of the container and its lid. That
resisted.
contemplated the scene, inert, stunned, staring
maneuvering,
just waving their hands to ward off the swarm of flies swirling
at that point, attracted by the sweat
sweetness and density of the atmosphere .
I had removed the shirt
thinking about the funeral of the late
N made a timid gesture of help,
and finally gave up the top.
receptacle watched that gray matter
the ashes of my grandmother. Why
always thought of a soft iridescent fine powder? A gust of laughter
I climbed up the throat as vomit:
a loud shriek breaking into the desolation of the withered summer landscape,
hysterical laughter, pathos, it inherited a release of adrenaline
unhealthy I felt a wave of shame when he saw me standing there, saying goodbye to my grandmother
My grandmother's soul,
with ass sweat, almost out
a tit and a halo of flies crowding.
I covered my shame.
refuted the way,
tired and downcast.
Maybe we were not the most conventional family of Castile.
No farewell for days with great pomp,
no funeral or wreaths sublime.
But the oak that stands in the middle of a lost forest punctuated by the Duero,
grim summer, cool and shady in autumn
of my grandfather has the last five years, and now
my grandmother, his beloved wife ,
And his laughter,
thanks, thanks.
refuted the way,
tired and downcast.
Maybe we were not the most conventional family of Castile.
No farewell for days with great pomp,
no funeral or wreaths sublime.
But the oak that stands in the middle of a lost forest punctuated by the Duero,
grim summer, cool and shady in autumn
of my grandfather has the last five years, and now
my grandmother, his beloved wife ,
And his laughter,
thanks, thanks.
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