They’d thrown us out into the snow and we had to move forward. If we stopped, they would fire their Mausers.

It was snowing and we found shelter in an abandoned mine shaft. A few yards inside, in the darkness, a wild beast’s yellow eyes filled us with terror.

We couldn’t escape: Snow had blocked the mouth of the cave.

The beast was moving, it was crouched atop a pile of wood, the logs clattered as they fell, knocking against each other.

The storm was over and we were walking across the snow, which was infinite.

We had to keep moving forward because the hungry beast was following us, yet we stumbled, fell, overcome with sleep. We were awoken by an animal’s tongue, licking us, and it wasn’t a wild beast but a humble domestic dog that was scared and wanted our company.

A cold sun appeared, not even yellow, but enough to melt a little snow, and a blue pool was forming.

We went on walking, we were comforted now.

•

Marcela doesn’t remember any more than that, and I’ve lost our supernatural game.

I tell her it doesn’t matter whether she remembers the rest of it, her dream is already packed with detail.

She asks what I think and I say I think that if she wants to interpret the meaning, it’s very clear: salvation and hope.

She wonders, “Salvation from what? Hope for what?”

I consider that quite clear, too: Salvation from fear.

I tell her it’s strange that she dreamed about snow and I didn’t.

She wants to know why and I say I promised Mamá I’d take her to the snow.

She asks if we had the same dream and I say we didn’t, I dreamed I was walking around naked.

•

Today’s Friday, the anniversary of the day I was born, thirty-three years ago.

I catch Marcela studying me, once or twice, then averting her eyes. She asks whether something’s wrong.

I tell her no, but that it’s a special day.

I don’t feel like saying why it’s a special day nor does she display any interest in knowing why.

I board a bus that leaves me at the cemetery, now’s the best time, later on the sun will be exhausting.

Papá’s niche looks well-tended, no doubt Mamá came to tidy it up yesterday and today she’ll come visit with all the rest of them.

“Your wife and sons will not forget you,” the plaque’s inscription promises.

From the tiny portrait, Papá looks out, his gaze alert and penetrating.

As he sat for the photographer, could he have imagined that the lively glance he directed toward the camera would watch us forever from behind glass?