would have just one in the morning when I pulled out a soft moan in my sleep. Almost asleep I got out of bed and ran to his side to find slightly pale, repeatedly massaging her stomach, as if to assuage her pain. To my question what was wrong, responded with an almost amusing: You see why they say that gluttony is a sin? If I had not eaten so many peaches, I would not be paying these unusual like cramping and nausea. It hurt, but laughing. And I was at that point I was more awake, the joking did not think that at this hours like us to pray the rosary, right? He smiled weakly before answer that I knew who had thus gone atheist. Minutes later, after prepare a chamomile tea with anise and mint, I let her back in bed and keep sleeping ... as if nothing happened. And wrong. Much and so final.
passed around. It was rude and unexpected within six weeks everything went to hell. It happened so fast that I hardly remember the morning he entered the hospital, located south of the city. And then, one after the myriad of tests to finally, after several tense days and accelerated, namely truth. Palliative raw and naked. After hearing the news voice of the Doctor, I felt like my weak expelled cloud of hope, as overthrown by an explosive impact. As explosive as the diagnosed disease. The Doctor, who did not know the subtlety (I guess that's better), followed with a long disquisition medical but I did not listen. I left the hospital and walked aimlessly for a while, until an unexpected drizzle took me from my reverie. Then back on my feet and walked up the room. I found her asleep, her face lit transparently by the light of that strange summer evening that seeped through the blinds. Instead of feel so happy to see her, I wanted to mourn, cry, but I did not. I just stood there staring for a long time. His face stayed seemed to contradict the overwhelming medical diagnosis: placid, sweet with a slight shade of pink. Nothing sickly pallor, no tension. And suddenly I understood fully, in other words, put into practice, the meaning of a saying oft for her, almost like advice: there are moments in which nothing remains but to bite the bullet . It was there, seeing it asleep, lost in a dream that never wake up no longer, when I learned (but not quite, I sometimes fail) to bite the bullet heart: I sat beside her, doing nothing more than looking at it in silence to set in my mind the image of him so serene, almost relieved. And so it has survived, without losing their sharpness, despite the mists of time.
Postscript. After months of not doing so, today I came to post on the blog of scribes and Literatures. This is a text that supplements this entry. If you are interested give it a read: last night
passed around. It was rude and unexpected within six weeks everything went to hell. It happened so fast that I hardly remember the morning he entered the hospital, located south of the city. And then, one after the myriad of tests to finally, after several tense days and accelerated, namely truth. Palliative raw and naked. After hearing the news voice of the Doctor, I felt like my weak expelled cloud of hope, as overthrown by an explosive impact. As explosive as the diagnosed disease. The Doctor, who did not know the subtlety (I guess that's better), followed with a long disquisition medical but I did not listen. I left the hospital and walked aimlessly for a while, until an unexpected drizzle took me from my reverie. Then back on my feet and walked up the room. I found her asleep, her face lit transparently by the light of that strange summer evening that seeped through the blinds. Instead of feel so happy to see her, I wanted to mourn, cry, but I did not. I just stood there staring for a long time. His face stayed seemed to contradict the overwhelming medical diagnosis: placid, sweet with a slight shade of pink. Nothing sickly pallor, no tension. And suddenly I understood fully, in other words, put into practice, the meaning of a saying oft for her, almost like advice: there are moments in which nothing remains but to bite the bullet . It was there, seeing it asleep, lost in a dream that never wake up no longer, when I learned (but not quite, I sometimes fail) to bite the bullet heart: I sat beside her, doing nothing more than looking at it in silence to set in my mind the image of him so serene, almost relieved. And so it has survived, without losing their sharpness, despite the mists of time.
Postscript. After months of not doing so, today I came to post on the blog of scribes and Literatures. This is a text that supplements this entry. If you are interested give it a read: last night
"No I care what the faux pas that makes you fall on my body "Marguerite Yourcenar 
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