The Flagship
Sitting on the floor with eyes closed I have the head against the speaker and I hope the new smell of the combination. I feel the vibration in the front the voice says something about the immortality I do not understand. I turn my head to ask but did not hear me, cry, laugh, shake a fist in two or three times with momentum and make the winners and embrace with joy I'm afraid because I had never been so happy. I feel up and restrain the tears so hard that my throat hurts like a dog bit me on the inside.
few days earlier he had served five years. So I know which is the third recall of my life.
Then we left. I had between the two, one for each hand, and if I looked up the first I could see was his clenched smiles. In the parks of Palermo Argentina I bought a flag and wave it taught me to Libertador Avenue with his arm raised. It was exciting: from all other flags and honking car answered my greeting. Running and jumping to keep long passages of the two, sobbing without knowing why, but did not stop waving the flag. No one heard me because he had a lot of noise. For many years I believed that I cried that day only.
reading the book in second grade had a reading that was called The Bearer of the Humble . Everything he said was the truth there. At year's end came to school for each baby doll and a leather ball, a real number 5 for each child. That summer my classmates took the first vacation of his life and beginning the following year, when teachers asked where we spend the summer, showed photos. Some were sitting on the beach, others standing on rocks in a mountain stream, almost all front of the entrance of hotels that were like palaces. High doors were varnished wood-paneled walls covered with glass and white stone blocks.
my friend's dad bought his first home Vitali with credit. That impressed me because I thought it was a caveman. He was always hunched over and covered in soot, merged in the gloom of his study of eggs and coal and puffing and communicated only in grunts. Vitali told me about the house with eyes wide open, as if he had just witnessed a miracle.
A Vitali liked the books but when I paid you could not read it because when I was at school not replaced his father in the coal.
- We are alone, he said, because her mother had died when I was very young and before he was born, I was not sure.
I like to visit because he could be a long time in silence. We sat in the darkness of the room breathing the smell of fresh straw used to store hundreds of eggs from hens living in cages around the patio.
I liked the miracles that the champion was from immortality. I felt protected like all the guys and big, we were children of good parents themselves that kept us safe from poverty.
My family did not see it that way. What seemed to me a wonder to them as an insult offended. Never told me what was the cause and I did not ask because it seemed something understood. With the teachers themselves could speak: they also thought we were privileged to live under the protection of the Bearer of the poor.
On the first anniversary made us write an essay about it.
-In their own words, researchers said.
My pen flew the china ink to paper Rivadavia not miss any adjective, not a single exclamation point of the dozens people trampling on my pen spoon.
All my colleagues were six short colored pencils, rough mine, which came in a regular cardboard box. I had a blue box with twelve tin Staedtler pencils that I had sent my German grandmother. Kept sorted by the colors of the rainbow that was in the Treasury Youth. I liked to roll gently caress and against the can. My dad had told me that the privilege to have this treasure entailed certain responsibilities, not letting it fall to not break mine, do not miss any and always keep it sharp in gillette, not the pencil sharpener.
I loved to write essays but what I liked most was finishing them, because then I opened my box of paints and the foot of the text was suggestive drawings showed that after the teacher and praise to all my classmates. But this time, under the composition of the standard bearer no sketch. After reading my own text figured art was not able to do justice to my feelings. A God yes, I had drawn the week before at the foot of an essay about the creation of the universe: it was an old bearded man sitting on a cushion of clouds surrounded by heavenly angels as chubby peaches.
At night my parents flipped through my notebook and asked me why the composition of the champion was the only one that had no picture.
- is a mortal sin to draw a saint, I explained.
did not know what exactly a mortal sin, but thought it was like eating poisonous mushrooms, something you do for entertainment and could cost lives.
"And drawing is not a sin to God? asked my mom with the casual tone of voice that tried to downplay the most serious.
- No, because God is holy, "I said God sees everything and let the People bad things happen.
I think my argument was unassailable because they said nothing and continued eating soup as if they had been thinking.
.jpg)
