Monday to Friday mornings always know the same thing. A dry mouth by the early start. A sticky laziness. A vague desire to scoot all the crap. As the alarm goes off I go upstairs I do not know whether to turn on the coffeemaker and make my case and my son's backpack sleeping near the front door and thus not be forgotten among so many career. They are in the same corner that has long occupied a stroller and a folder of drawings of architect. Then under my room and then back up. Sometimes I do it for me not to burn the bread on the plate, or to remove the brown sugar. Low to shower and I go to find the socks that I left when I went to get bread. I continue with the nausea in the throat. What happens is I can not lift the blinds, or open the curtains as he often did at one time or now on Saturdays. Why, if it's dark and there is still a ray of light from the shadows to rescue wandering in and out like stray cats. Also urges haste. Every so often I look at the clock his pulse to the deadline. I know that if I jump the delay, it will become large as skeins of yarn that my grandmother patiently built. These days when the late seizes me, I could go out with my son's hand on the door and find a herd of rhinos or the most beautiful man on the planet and not see them ever. Drag the child speechless, making my way between beauty and bestiality to reach my car. Because those days, all that happens in my life I'm not going to be on time. Once
spent the night snowing. When we leave the portal we sink to their ankles in the snow, but I did not notice it until the wheels of the car refused to walk. Had accumulated two inches of snow, and my son was laughing like a child. But I was only able to watch the clock.
Today was not quite wrong with the horalímite. I finished preparing things ten minutes earlier, and were about to go way to school. Still do not know how I saved six hundred precious seconds in the morning cold and wet Monday. Maybe so, because everything was going well, no I have scolded the child and I have looked in the mirror at the entrance. Leaving something on the street caught my attention. The birds did not sing, not heard in the distance the clearing of the cars or the sound of airplanes. Perhaps it was this strange silence that has pushed me to look at the sky. Was red. For the rain, I of course, but to warn his movement, I understood that something alive was in the air. From the bottom of the pink horizon, the birds were approaching; were flamingos. Flemish inflaming the sky a people of Madrid, used to the swallows and the occasional pair of storks. At first they were just a stain, red ripple of the sky. As they grew size, proximity, defined his flock in a zigzag flight almost military, then I sensed that I brought something. Their long necks, their thin legs lying on the wind, the profile of the peaks crooked black, mascara in the plumage of its wings restless, something had to bring. This morning a flock of pink flamingos have flown over my house and I was flown to me while I let time pass, still, watching. With your head up in disbelief. Wanting to believe, yes. But no energy, reluctantly. And they have left to spend even one minute, for God knows how long. Shouting (among its fun, listened to protest that my son was late for school), had been happy a steady course and I wanted to show. "With the agreed pace of an orchestra," she whispers, the poet.
And I know that they, firm, strong, shipped to the east, far from bringing me nothing, they took my last hope.
spent the night snowing. When we leave the portal we sink to their ankles in the snow, but I did not notice it until the wheels of the car refused to walk. Had accumulated two inches of snow, and my son was laughing like a child. But I was only able to watch the clock.
Today was not quite wrong with the horalímite. I finished preparing things ten minutes earlier, and were about to go way to school. Still do not know how I saved six hundred precious seconds in the morning cold and wet Monday. Maybe so, because everything was going well, no I have scolded the child and I have looked in the mirror at the entrance. Leaving something on the street caught my attention. The birds did not sing, not heard in the distance the clearing of the cars or the sound of airplanes. Perhaps it was this strange silence that has pushed me to look at the sky. Was red. For the rain, I of course, but to warn his movement, I understood that something alive was in the air. From the bottom of the pink horizon, the birds were approaching; were flamingos. Flemish inflaming the sky a people of Madrid, used to the swallows and the occasional pair of storks. At first they were just a stain, red ripple of the sky. As they grew size, proximity, defined his flock in a zigzag flight almost military, then I sensed that I brought something. Their long necks, their thin legs lying on the wind, the profile of the peaks crooked black, mascara in the plumage of its wings restless, something had to bring. This morning a flock of pink flamingos have flown over my house and I was flown to me while I let time pass, still, watching. With your head up in disbelief. Wanting to believe, yes. But no energy, reluctantly. And they have left to spend even one minute, for God knows how long. Shouting (among its fun, listened to protest that my son was late for school), had been happy a steady course and I wanted to show. "With the agreed pace of an orchestra," she whispers, the poet.
And I know that they, firm, strong, shipped to the east, far from bringing me nothing, they took my last hope.
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