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I search for a willow path, and laughter of sand under my thirsty feet and the brown odor of cinnamon in the old wood of the stove, and the voices crackling in the hearth and in the patio of the incandescent moon the drunk sunflowers in flames and a clatter of spurs growing in the night, and a certain smell of tobacco, of wet leather, of wild alcohol disturbing my sleep, and the fear encrusted in my chest and the trunk lying in wait in the twilight of that forbidden room, of irate shouts -- the rickety trunk in whose belly were saved the terrible bones of the gringo grandfather. |