Lately, I´ve been remembering the Sundays of my childhood. Listening, in my mind, to the soundtrack of those days, when the entire family gathered together at my Great-Grandmother´s Spanish home, as some of them celebrated – to my horror– the ¨faena¨ of the day.
The ¨Pollo Basco¨ was served for lunch alongside al dente pasta. But as family members kept on arriving all afternoon, and the pasta kept on getting warm, by 5pm it was no longer al dente but something we called a ¨pasta macarrón¨ – an overcooked pasta, not to be confused with the french dessert good that I love so much.
You can tell I´ve been missing my mother´s family, my Spaniard side. Ever since my own RL mother passed – my SL one is, thank G-d, alive, kicking and unrepentant, thank you very much! – I have felt incredibly fragile. Almost as if the illusion of strength that I always had about me had come from her.
Today, however, I was able to identify and witness that someone else around me was feeling the same way plus exhausted.
Amazingly, I felt all my strength syphoned back into me and I was able to stand guard … for the love of them.