Mi historia entre tus dedos.

Lo que pasa, ves?, es que no tengo tiempo de ser yo.

In 1898, somewhere in the hinterlands of a little country much too far to bother to remember the name, a little girl was born. Having overstayed her welcome in a country that was in any case too tiny to contain her, she moved to this one--but not before she'd had her children and left them in the land she chose to leave. From the 30's, she lived here, and only here, and nowhere else.

I met her when she was 6 times my age and I was just going into High School. She hugged me; she fed me; she played the piano for me. She said my name like she was tasting wine to rate the vintage, and then she smiled.

Years later, she hugged my daughter and she said "how cute!" like a pre-teen at a Hello Kitty store. There were, between them, three generations of us, and we looked at them, all smiles, all happiness, NormanRockwell-type material had we been a little whiter--ok, a lot whiter in my case.

She died at 102. I saw her only 3 more times after the first--and the last it was just to say goodbye for she was already asleep.

What I have said here is all I know about her. I typed here 2/3 of all the words she ever said to me. On her grave, a few nice words have been engraved--but in time they will be gone, too. Who knows whom we were when we no longer are? The little line that splits the dates ought to be heavier, darker, bolder, wider, stronger, more painful.

And why do ghosts weigh so heavily on our shoulders when we can shirk the living with such ease?

Por eso digo, que al final, haber vivido siendo otro no hara ninguna diferencia. Los hijos de mis hijos me recondaran como una cara y nada mas; y los hijos de ellos no sabran mas que existi--y despues?

Y despues?

Y?