The sweet seed flibbook

It was the winter of '85. I remember the air was cold and moving like a shadow
along the trails of that small remote town, colliding with the fruits of the orange
trees near the 10th Street gate, the roofs, platforms, meadows, parks and all what
had a body around me. From my spacious house, without a roof, starless, dark,
to the bright and full of sun, full of details and green meadows, what could be
called with the thoughts of a cold and different month, persists, sad, melancholic
and meaningless , surrounding with his thick coldness my small and fragile body
unknown to me at that time. My mother, a wise, tired, complaining woman,
watched by my little eyes and listened to by my little ears, says with the sweetness
of someone who does not want to chase away the dream of a little weepy "Don't
go catching a cold " as he covered and rubbed my little button-sized nose from
top to bottom and bottom to top with his right thumb, pressing me against her left
chest, emitting from her hard and soft skin a milk smell, and from her body, a hot
vapor equal or better than a bonfire.
I remember her eyes, I remember her brightness, the scent of her fingers on my
nose, the light that her noble heart emanated, enough to light the light bulbs in
the dark of my life.