Los Recuerdos

Memories often tell you lies. They adapt to the wind, manipulate the story; they shrink here, stretch there, they are dyed in glory, they bathe in mud, they sweeten, they sour to our liking, as it suits us; because above all and despite everything we must survive. Memories that flew far away or that closets lock up; when the weather is about to change, like war wounds, they hurt us again. Memories have a fragile perfume that accompanies them throughout life and carry tattooed on their forehead any ordinary day, a common name with which they walk with a mournful step, up and down, wet sidewalks always humming the same song. And no matter how happy times they bring out hand in hand, memories tend to be sad children, as they are, of the past, of what was and no longer exists. But memories stripped of ornaments, free of nostalgia, when only pure memory remains, the faceless smell, the nameless color, without embodiment, are the skeleton on which we build everything we are, what we were and what we wanted and couldn't be.
Later, inflexible, oblivion will gnaw at the story; and those who have loved us will restore our memory to their liking and measure with memories of their lives.