Morena, almost dry by the sun, tightly bony hand of my grandmother guided by the light ridge nfancia lai, I was preparing tasty trifles, I clung to the strangeness that is home to a race not expected. Just remember his words, if they spoke, although I understand that his toothless mouth only served to rehearse gestures of mourning or of resignation and to issue the insults of hyenas that she and my mother sometimes torn. Buela mia hand, he prepared a simple and nutritious food, but there was a time, fussy child, he no longer to cook because I forgot aba washing and the dishes tasted like dirt and included some insect. The hand that caressed roughly the scalp with the comb, begging, asking for a glass of water while he was prostrate in the bed of his prolonged agony. The hand of my grandmother who seemed delirious, with its cautionary hand wobble reminded me that, by playing football, I had forgotten administrarl medicine. That hand whose fingers many times the cross in farewell and yet still childishly digging in vivo, with his strength and his curiosity diminished. Weak hand, and not brown, yellow, no longer skinny, almost stiff that rested on my forehead without recognizing who stroked.
Armando González Torres, Theory de la afrenta , México, CNCA, 2008.
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