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Roberto Matta. “La luz de Aynadamar”.

Psst.
There it is. Can you hear it? It’s a dull call, almost inaudible. As a voice speaking your name just in the moment of awakening, after a dream that you cannot remember anymore. Unreal, but undeniable.
It started a few years ago, very fleetingly at the beginning, in such an anodyne way that it was not even worth pay attention. But eventually, it grew more pressing and hard to ignore. It’s not for the periodicity, because it’s not as if it’s an ongoing thing, but they gained such a rhythm and persistency that they started to get my attention and concern.
Weeks and months pass by without hearing anything. I even forget they are out there, until that suddenly…
Psst.
There. See? It must be some of those rare instances when they come in bursts. Sometimes they do that. A couple of them during the same day, or the same hour, or minute. You never know. Always there. Even in the deepest silence. Waiting for catching me distracted enough to make themselves heard.
It’s like they know that I found out about them. It was casual. I was brushing my teeth at the bathroom mirror when I heard the sudden Psst, and with the corner of my eye I catched the reflection of some small shadows moving through the gap between the tub and the toilet. But I couldn’t stop watching. I saw them whispering as laughing goblins, endeavoring to weave some tiny, shiny filaments. Even at the bright light of that afternoon, the silver glow of those filaments could be seen. They were strands of time. I knew it immediately.
Small creatures weaving strands of time, gracefully and relentlessly. My grandmother used to tell me about them in her deathbed. I was just a child then and unable to understand what she was talking about. Nobody was, actually. They assumed it was another symptom of her senile dementia, or her inexorable agony before the end. It won’t be long now, murmured my grandmother in her last days, with a glint of solace, almost hopeful. When they weave the last strand it will be ready, she said, smiling with great difficulty.
And she was right. I know. Those of mine began being weaved as well. One by one the strands of my time start to come off as the years go by. They will be collected and put together patiently and joyfully, until the last one be detached. Then it will be finished. A beautiful suit made of light, made to measure, ready to be worn.
The final finery to the last dance.

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