Her son, her first child, had died a few months. It was, he used to think, something like a mechanical act of justice exercised in a cold court in the upper echelon of the bureaucratic level that governs the laws of nature. Miguel went as his mother had left two years earlier. And he was just born Gabriel, and removes the last glimmer of life indelible planted, suitable only for nostalgia and not for review. Of course I suffered for it. With his death, disappeared all trace of Andrea because he suspected that, even if you want a child, it will not stop be, somehow, the extension of a woman he loved, and that in his face, his gestures, his movements, is, in some part crouching, the entire genome of any romance. And so, when the child died, just at the moment he saw his life remade, could not help thinking that Michael was a gift given by Andrea, directed not to leave him alone in this world and that, therefore, to draw again the path of the happy days are going back to your natural breast. When I looked at Gabriel did from the pain of always searching without finding traces of the past ideal (ized) in the present, always imperfect, insufficient. He knew, without being overly dramatic, consisitiría his life, probably, in a relentless pursuit of the features of Michael, of the features of Andrea, in everything around him. So to win their complicity, more out of habit, more for fear of error of laziness or apathy, dusted old alchemy of the heart. And the new thought. Perhaps dreaming of a hint of resemblance in the smile of every baby, Hayase one day, in response to the limited alphabet of strokes, a first moment of happiness virgin, to continue (to be followed!), The nth second hundredth first ...
But Gabriel, her beloved Gabriel, you show every night that happiness does not have a single face, which can invent, even if it requires emotional strabismus. Then he turns his little neck and goes to sleep.
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