The mother, who may not have forgotten the slapping I gave to the child of hers that tore up my Minotauro, and who’s also worried because it’s three in the afternoon and the girl hasn’t eaten a thing all day, lets herself get carried away in a flood of aversion and condemnation. I foresee that, in her moment, she’ll tell Mauricio about every personal defect of mine that will make me look bad.

No matter, I can withdraw.

It was, perhaps, a bit forced. I’d come to see myself, during those days, as if I were clinging to my family’s affection, grasping a hook by a single finger with the void beneath me.

I kiss Mamá’s forehead, smile to soothe her dismay, since nothing at all has happened, and head off down the sidewalk, calm, lost in thought . . . At the end of the day, when I’m thinking, it doesn’t show on the outside. If other people don’t see it, they don’t do me any harm.

I remember Papá. I’d like to have him with us, with Mamá and Mauricio.

Then I think about the death of the bird. While it’s certainly true that one who eats, lives, it’s equally true that one who does not eat does not live, and the imprisoned sparrow did not eat, which led to its not living. And that was the little girl’s mistake: She believed that all of us want to live, that it’s enough to put the food there in front of us.

As I cross the street, a man comes around the corner, supporting himself against the wall. With his right hand he helps push his right leg forward; once it’s solidly planted, he slides the left foot forward—that limb appears to be in good condition—and begins again with the right. Hanging from one shoulder and slung across his torso he has a kind of canvas sack, half open, with provisions sticking out of it: a large, golden loaf of broad, a bunch of vegetables, a package of noodles. He drags his leg along and remains alive; they send him out to buy groceries and, in his way, he feels useful. I turn to follow him with my eyes, he’s still walking, down at the far end of the block. Life is tenacious.

•

Julia’s hiding something, prevaricating, but she’s grown very tender with me, much more than usual, I’d say.