Walk up to the hill
In the end, I look up at the sky that when the atmosphere is humid, shows a joyful picture of white clouds of diverse types which contrast with the blue sky of the background.
It is a ritual that I perform every day. I start walking across the almond tree orchard, southwards; I walk up the soft slope staring at her house, formerly plenty of life and light; now, silently sad. Not pretending to, my eyes notice the blue stain on the little bench at the entrance door, that I always forget to whitewash, something that she had asked me to do several times.
I walk across the threshing floor and start going up the hill. I walk silently and respectfully not only for the path I am going on, but for the destination. Sometimes, a rabbit or a partridge interrupts my thoughts when running across in front of me with a fast zigzag. Alongside the path, the rosemary and thyme bushes overgrow, especially in these recent rainy years after her absence.
I arrive at the summit with laboured breath. Here, I look around to check that everything is all right; as it should be, in its appropriate place. Then, I rise my eyes to the horizon. The landscape is enormously beautiful, but the most outstanding characteristic is the serenity that it conveys. To the right, at the background I see the blue curtain of the mountain chain; in front of me, the lake surface provides a wide range of blue tones, ranking from pale blue on winter days, to the summer turquoise, passing by the bright blue and the purple, on stormy days. Far away, the valley extends quietly and softly, as far as the eye can see.
Afterwards, I lay my eyes on the surrounding farms “cortijos”; some of them are very old and rise on top of the hills in solitude, with magnificent elegance. Others, more recently built, but in harmony with the traditional style, look more lively.
In the end, I look up at the sky that when the atmosphere is humid, shows a joyful picture of white clouds of diverse types which contrast with the blue sky of the background. Then, my eyes flood with tears; at the same time, paradoxically, I smile remembering her blue eyes, and I get immersed in a peaceful, calm and plenitude sensation. I feel her besides me, with me. I feel her strength; I feel the life.
Guadalupe Díaz Muñoz “To the memory of my sister”