sometimes less than they should, come to my mind a frightening image. In it I have fifteen years and I am alone and not knowing what to do in the hospital room where my grandfather died. It smells damp, sweaty sheets, to remedies. A very sad medialuz dirt covers the walls, floor and all the sick. The doctor takes from some stretchers distributed in any way in the narrowness of the room until the dying body "You'd better take him home, this is no way out," he says.
grandfather some years had stalled in his room. He had been so talkative, juerguero and womanizer, almost no talk and refused to move him out of bed and the room where she spent her days foul prone. "He will have done many bad things my grandfather, I thought, but nobody deserves to die that way." The grandfather I stared from his bed. Her eyes were sad. Rolled down his cheek a tear and my departure from the hospital was grim.
The next stage of history would come days later, at dawn, when a call from my uncle Richard, the priest told us we had to go to the hospital morgue to dress the body. Cool and green in the dark room, I looked at many times he had embraced me as a child. I shook my head lowered, among other packages covered with a tarpaulin, some small, all lying on stretchers so cold as his.
For some reason, perhaps the anguish of your pages, perhaps only the time Advanced I read them, these images have returned vivid to visit some scenes from this wonderful novel by Bellow: Humboldt's Gift
0 comments:
Post a Comment