Sometimes changes regular arrive and slowly, like drops of serum on the arm of a terminally ill patient.
Other times they are a tornado, an avalanche that changes everything, and that prevents us from discourse, much less respond to its consequences.
Mila entered his bedroom trying not to damage the strange package with no weight given to him by the clueless gardener on behalf of his father. For its lightness, must be extremely fragile. After very carefully unwrap it, only had a box in his hand completely empty white cardboard. On one side he found the faded imprint of a stamp could still read Tomelloso Senior Residence . It seemed one of those boxes that were used in some institutions for avoiding medication containing trademarks. Neither the package nor the seal or the inscription nor the people had any meaning for her, so I left it on the bedside table and, without the presence of those attending the vigil, he slept, his dreams were waiting, impatient.
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Something happened in the yard, the biggest came and went from one place to another, Fear was a light sleeper. As it took to get to the garage, a police officer had been planted at the gate preventing entry to members of the family and service. Whatever it was, had happened in the gardener's shack, which along with storage and garage, made up the huge vessel of a plant located a few meters of the mansion. The rounded up to the window of Evaristo and saw him there, right there: they had impaled the head between the bars of the gate, leaving the ears in the course of the maneuver. It seemed alive, but unconscious. A policeman tried to remove there and the other advised him to wait for firefighters, who apparently were on their way.
From his position, Fear could be seen inside the house very poor fielder, dirt, and a single ornament on the wall nailed with four pins: polaroid photo of a cemetery looked like the pictures that I had seen in a book of Collioure cemetery, the place where they buried Antonio Machado, was curious to remember the place, considering the contempt he felt for the poems of this kind.
Fear not know why, but he knew that had to be done with photography.
Sometimes changes come to us with the blaring music of a parade marching by our house.
Other times they come in a box empty.
© Biedermann & Francis P.
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