His memories are scattered into a starry sky. Some shine strong marks in the firmament of eternal life, others quietly disappear, leaving the darkness of oblivion. She tells me of a bygone era, and yet so dear to his heart, so fresh in his memory. It is there, in his soul, young mother pampered her two little girls adorable. She says motherhood, happiness and laughter shared ...
Suddenly, her eyes clinging to mine. The grave, she asks me:
- But ... you, you have children?
I have a habit of dodging the issue, taking a circuitous route to query the overthrow of speech ... But ... it's different.
- I have a son.
- Is that all?
- Yes.
His eyes darkened, she is thoughtful, and answered with the solemnity of Wisdom:
- Remember when you're gone ... With whom your son can he share his memories of childhood? ...
I realize then that my son, my little one for me, will perhaps my way of nostalgia, turning regularly on his childhood, sometimes it rejuvenating to better face the future ... I never thought he could bear to be alone on this path, without companion or witness this time.
I also realize that despite the existence of an older brother, so distant, I will, when my parents are gone, someone with whom to share my memories. Some pictures, at most, give relief to my memory, but nobody who I can say
- Do you remember?
... If I know that Ulysses will certainly be childhood friends, happiness and laughter, again I look through my biggest question: What will become of me, me, Melody, and what will happen about my identity and my history, when my parents are no longer?
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