Oda amarilla

I smell the seawater. The scent reminds me of a house. The house, of a woman who is forgetting that she is my mother. I gather the pieces of a past puzzle and set out to reconstruct something of our shared history, but memory springs a leak. I wonder what memories are made of. We begin to take our first strokes in a time that can hold us, one in which knowing ourselves as mother and daughter is reinvented with every step.