The photo is mine and is my favorite ... Day of the Dead and Day of the Innocents. November is a grateful that begins with a holiday. Day off rubber skulls and witches. Either way is a time to commemorate those we are ahead in this journey of no return.
My taste buds rejoice when I think of the eternal voice of the grandmother reminding us just as anise that carry the sausage. You can almost hear the luncheon criticizing the neighbor who always has the tanning too rough. And a legacy is the mother who learns and then follows the daughter (or son), knowing the office of best deli in the world, which of course is what makes my mom and not yours.
My skin reacts to the wind that brings cold November elegant, able to make us soar like kites colors vulnerable to air currents. Neck hurts so much to see the blue sky, stunning and beautiful, deep and eternal. Until the thread and not up to it and breaks the connection, and we lost in the endless blue. Or sadly become entangled in power lines.
and include pain, tears and cries, and when that run among the graves with the smell of rotting flowers to pursue our dreams. Maybe it's time to escape to a place where tradition does not woodworm both senses.
My memory of Todos Santos Cuchumatanes, is primarily olfactory. Enters the nose the smell of copal incense and the bustle of dirt and mud left by the horse race, which gave up living healthy to leave it as immortal icon of my best memories. Still hear the cries, and howls of pain, sorrow drowning alcohol from those who were already.
The soundtrack of my death is a marimba that merges with another and another and another ...
(Wrestling elPeriódico published on Wednesday October 27, 2010)
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