girl Amada only yesterday:
I write from nostalgia, from this day I booted tattered soul, left marks on the skin samples of rebirth at every entrance to a theater, a progress survive diagnostics.
I write, from my playhouse, kitchen to cook in earnest, with a chunk white squares appeared lumps of sugar. Where my baby dolls and never grew large arriving were also daughters, sisters, students, patients, friends, inseparable companions, confidants who knows how much punishment a child can suffer.
I write from nostalgia, from this day I booted tattered soul, left marks on the skin samples of rebirth at every entrance to a theater, a progress survive diagnostics.
I write, from my playhouse, kitchen to cook in earnest, with a chunk white squares appeared lumps of sugar. Where my baby dolls and never grew large arriving were also daughters, sisters, students, patients, friends, inseparable companions, confidants who knows how much punishment a child can suffer.
I am writing from my book Mantilla, hardcover, where I learned to read and where I loved every word I came across cautionary tale that there dwelt, with images of early twentieth century, which made me dream of being as good children who told stories subsidiaries, or as the wise teacher who gave lessons of life in innocence and goodness of a huge respect for others, brother life is giving us.
girl I write only yesterday from my notebooks and leather chair that was in the "little school pays the teacher retired neighbor, who refused to stop teaching reading and writing to those left in their care , and for me, which had only four years, was like a pre-school today, but from where I started, writing fluently, leaving behind the strokes and "or" round like the sun.
girl I write only yesterday from my notebooks and leather chair that was in the "little school pays the teacher retired neighbor, who refused to stop teaching reading and writing to those left in their care , and for me, which had only four years, was like a pre-school today, but from where I started, writing fluently, leaving behind the strokes and "or" round like the sun.
I am writing from my room where my desk bed was often the stories he wrote after read a poem that made me jump tears or a novel about impossible love, where Mary was the star that died without his beloved Ephraim at his side. If you had known Jorge Isaacs, how many times I reread chapters of your wonderful novel.
I am writing from Gallegos, Uslar Pietri, Andrés Eloy Blanco, Juan Antonio Pérez Bonalde, Otero Silva, Guillermo Meneses and ineffable Teresa de la Parra in his memoirs, White Mama and her beautiful Iphigenia. I am writing from an endless circle of writers who left a dent in my being forever.
you also write from my dreams to become a priest, a missionary in Africa, or at the country serving God in which nothing possess.
But mostly, I write from my innocence, from this point who planted and cultivated in me forever, believing without fail in humans, in truth, never to deceive and be who I am, to be as I was taught to be. Today
drag thistles that I found on the roads, the disappointments, the homeless, my anger, my fears, my failures and victories, all of life live forever in trying not to lose the rest of noble innocence that makes me say ... you who read me now, I love you, but do not know anything, but suffice it to know you exist, that my word I recognize and acknowledge you to take part to me.
girl I write only yesterday, with the weight of this lonely and painful fall, but with eyes full of butterflies of all colors, ears deafened with the singing of cicadas and the chattering of parrots and macaws that were running fences in the backyards of the neighbors, apple oil field where I was born and raised, for me that my book Mantilla educator and the Rapporteur of feelings in letters ever written.
I write without saying goodbye to you my piece in yesterday's girl, who still lives in me.
I love you, I
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