Thursday, April 14, 2011

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My father was tall, strong and smiling. It seemed very strong and very tall. Sacrifice brought goose that Paulina was their work. My grandfather and uncle did not dare. The women took refuge in the rooms, laughing, screaming, did not want to see it.
My father was sharpening a large knife was sitting in the kitchen with an apron on her knees and a cup on the floor. Opened the bunker, grabbed the poor animal, pinned between her legs with a clean cut and cut his neck. Then let him bleed on the cup and enduring their death throes. He saw with eyes that ritual between surprised, frightened and curious. I have never killed any chickens.

Now that life changes and turns and I'm sitting in the kitchen of this empty house that I care breaks my heart in so many images flooding me, filling me yesterday ...


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