Natural History of Debris
This is my real father Natural History of Debris My father had two birthdays, but a single life. He kept both papers with zeal, they witnessed his existence. His birth certificate had him registered on a different day than the one we celebrated. With one of those dates my tired father bribed death. My sister and I always asked him to tell us about his childhood. He preserved intact the hamlet, the village, his mother, his brothers. The wondering, menacing animals, the trees, imprecise like someone's dream plus, every leaf in his lineage, each fruit with the lukewarm temperature of its pulp. The river close to the house, the inexhaustible rancor. He disappeared on that shore at the age of six. He rose from the worm entrails of dawn and left without giving notice. The house was calm, a sleeping cow, his footsteps on the thin branches could hardly be heard. He would sleepwalk with his eyes sealed with wax. Grandmother
