there was a robin in my feeders, in spite of the freezing temperatures…
robin this morning.
Pinocho was a cat. Romano, in Spanish (Tabby).
My recollections of him are rather vague. I may have been seven or eight year old. My dad had died not long. I never saw him dead. Or his body. Although I saw him in my mind. Or his ghost, as he was never visibly present in my mind, for what I can recollect. Nightmares, night after night, to the point I was often afraid to go to sleep. Going up on an elevator, up, up, up… Forever, until I woke up… usually before I got lost…
Sweaty? That is what is written in novels. However, I do remember the sense of anguish, always present, even now, nearly seventy years later.
When I close my eyes in the night, there is always a trepidation lurking. Not acknowledged, but present.
There is a cup pf Tanzanian coffee on my desk whilst I am writing. Digging, in my memory, all these years later.
A distillation of what really happened then. Tinted by my love of cats, my lifelong friends.
And a glass of Amaretto. Tipsy, not drunk.
Cats are hovering around me. Springy is curled on my feet. Pinocho is somewhere on the back of my memories. On a train, in a sort of basket, or something like that. Bella made her spot near me, while Domi, in her elegant pose, her nose in the pad.
There was a dog, too. I hardly remember him, or her. Kept barking at Pinocho, looking down unperturbed on top of the kitchen cupboards.
Pinocho was the first cat that I clearly recollect, although there were others before him. I can vaguely feel them, rather than remembering.
I saw a photograph of me, a toddler with his head shaved, in the family album. I was infected with the tiña (ringworm), by a cat, too.
There was a train, going to Quilicura. To the fundo of my great uncle had near Santiago. The coaches were American made, rather elegant. We had to climb unto an open platform before entering into the coach itself.
So quiet is the evening. Through the window I see snow on the ground, although already melting.
Pinocho went with us on that journey to Quilicura. Al some time, my memory fails me, he escaped and run through the length of the train, us following chasing him. My cousin was with us, too. I was afraid that he would jump out of the train, although the carriages had already been closed.
Yannick is running around, the afternoon madness overcoming her.
This morning, for the first time this year, I saw a starling feasting on one of my feeders.
Walking through my neighbourhood some seven years ago, in the evening, I came across a forgotten doll, remains of a childhood which, perhaps, was in the process of being discarded.
Since then I have seen the girl to whom this doll that, once upon a time, cherished it. She is now a young woman, probably discarding boyfriends.
Snow, untouched, a blanket of silence punctured by the occasional chirping of sparrows…
Until it was violated by foot steps, the magic gone.
Enjoying his first snow…
(although not from a holiday brochure)
A confluence of light, river, sky, land, carefully positioned clouds on an otherwise blue sky, a brilliant summer afternoon, ingredients to transform a rather mundane scene
(the back of The Deep)
into something that stuck in my mind.
Over the years Sammy Point have evolved from being a derelict finger of land to meet the rivers that define the city.
In medieval times a fort was built on it, although located further in land, to defend the port from the marauding Danish seafarers.
The fort was abandoned, its only traces in the stories of the city, and the recently excavated foundations visible in a dig.
The Deep, designed by Terry Farrell, is one of the few successful Millennium projects.