In early September, took off the front of my closet under their doors by fall ... evening of that day I sat in bed watching the devastating aspect of the doors on the floor of my room. Although I can not boast of being highly organized, behind those doors seemed a whole world that seemed unknown.
the bottom of the top of my closet I could see my memory box and inside the box looked out the hat of one of my porcelain dolls. So, my dear two readers, the author was fond of beautiful porcelain dolls with fine finishes and delicate features.
the bottom of the top of my closet I could see my memory box and inside the box looked out the hat of one of my porcelain dolls. So, my dear two readers, the author was fond of beautiful porcelain dolls with fine finishes and delicate features.
Today I thought of the cabinet above, in my porcelain dolls and my happy childhood. As if you seek without knowing, in the middle of the anachronism of my day I found myself listening to "The Closet" by Francisco Gabilondo Soler and at that moment the image of the closet in my grandmother came to my mind and contrasted with my wardrobe. A scent of roses was impregnated wood in my day and brought me to my grandparents' house ... my favorite place.
When He died, I spent more than 3 entries in this blog. Days passed and December 2006 that became more cold and empty I had known. 4 months ago she died and an entry in this blog summed up what was left here after his departure.
Drowned in the sea of \u200b\u200bemotions that makes me think of my grandmother, and his recent absence, I try to write something today that makes those who do not know can know from my letters. Trying its vastness overwhelmed me.
This morning anachronistically with an air of melancholy and wood roses and pictures of me once again face her departure back to me this thank so much history ... awkwardly to thank the little ones have what SHE throughout our years told me and what I lived next to him and is still repeating every word she said and reviewing each of its movements and stories, I feel that my voice lacks everything ... and I lack the time, missing letters, missing history ... I miss her tears. This morning I realized that the gap here is larger and more intense cold.
this fall knows that stranger, known to the melancholy of the first fall of my life that do not embrace ... today being my favorite season will not be understood as I knew my FALL; not hear His voice, feel his arms or hands sujetaré. This November there will be no Altar of the Dead in YOUR house this fall there will be no smell of incense, wax and Copal. Not be your perfect dish on an altar. This year she will not make offerings to the dead: the will as tradition indicates as the feeling I required.
am now anachronistically last fall to his side and listen to talk again and again I feel his hand holding mine. Sitting on the floor of her immaculate white kitchen with the scent of coffee, wood, vanilla and grow carbon felt, saw me laugh, mourn, dream, imagine and learn. confessed that floor in only her biggest secrets I could be sitting on the floor and watched it again as I managed to memorize and review your movements, sitting there on that floor memorized your smile white.
In my 26 years I still sat on the white floor to observe. No one thought it strange that at my age continue to seek the floor having spare chairs in the home. I know she knew what was going through my mind that last time, I knew that April night in Campeche witnessed the impact of your voice in my dreams .
Back in the early morning as I write this slowly came to the conclusion that your hands will be needed here and no longer return to "my favorite place "ever since it was his presence that made him my favorite white floor.
His absence will hurt forever and the cold is already part of my life, this autumn will not be as those who knew and the gap is going to be ... Luckily I have his voice in my head, his image to close my eyes and aroma to think about it. The cold is more tolerable when I wrap a scarf and I cling to his memory and back to those autumn with the scent of incense, wax and Copal in that city he swore not to return now.
This morning, thinking about my wardrobe above, on my wrists and my childhood is the aroma of my grandmother, wood and roses, which fills the room and his clothes flowers painted colors that I am, is the sound of the piano and their feet walk the hear and remember its history.
grandmother takes the key ring and show me your wardrobe
With such beautiful and wonderful things that keep your keychain
Take grandma and show me your wardrobe
promise to sit still and not touch what you unset
big-eyed doll color of the sea, let
asked to play with my mom.
and tell me when you were in a carriage with your dad ...
"The Closet"
Francisco Gabilondo Soler
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