Queridos usuarios de hive os traigo un pequeño relato donde narro las vaciones de 5 niñas que eran hermanas y pasaban sus vacaciones en un sitio precioso y lleno de maravillosas historias, como lo era el campo pero especificamente en la humilde pero acogedora casa de su abuelita.
Espero os guste este relato y los llene de recuerdos bonitos.
un hermoso campo
en casa de la abuela
Iríamos esas vacaciones a la casa de mi abuela en verano era todo lo que un niño desearía tener.
Una casita blanca enclavada en la montaña, un arroyo espectacular al, aire fresco. Puro y por sobre todo campo hasta donde la vista daba y más allá , todo era campo.. Para poder correr a diestra y siniestra, claro. Esto no era cosa que le gustara a mi madre, ella era como una gallina con sus pollitos, tratando de protegerlos , picoteándolos queriendo mantenerlos juntos y quietos...
Esas noches de verano parecían tener la magia de los cuentos, con el croar de las ranas , el concierto de los grillos ..y la luna. Que parecía un faro alumbrando el camino que se veía como una serpiente zigzagueante y plateada.
Los niños suelen tener gran imaginación y esas noches solo alumbradas por la lámpara a kerosen solían atemorizarnos, las largas sombras que en el patio o en las paredes dibujaban extraños fantasmas.
Las voces de mi madre y de mi abuela se hacían monótonas en la cocina, horas tras horas. Hasta que los ojos comenzaban a dar sus últimas pestañadas , de pronto la puerta se abría y para nuestra tranquilidad era mi tío..
Porque si hay algo que tenía mi tío, era la costumbre de ser un buen hijo, no importaba si de día o de noche, siempre. Pero siempre le daba una vuelta a mi abuela. Lo recuerdo bien con su bolsa rayada trayendo maíz para los pollos, "que hacen chinitas”. Nos decía, y esa voz nos tranquilizaba, alto y delgado, se esfumaba de pronto casi como había llegado. Tenía esa particularidad de parecerse a los Ángeles que sabes que están aunque se vayan...
Recuerdo bien ese olor a leña cuando mi madre y mi abuela cocinaban, seguirá por siempre ese aroma pegado en mi alma.
La habitación de mi abuela, pequeña pero bien
Aseada solía tener esos objetos que recuerdas por siempre porque quedaron en la retina de la infancia, un cuadro de vivos colores del corazón de Jesús colgaba sobre el respaldar de la cama, la pequeña mesa de luz, unos pocos adornos, la muñeca sin patas y la jirafa. La jirafa con ella solíamos jugar y hasta era motivo de disputa entre hermanas, la paseábamos por el patio y al irnos volvía a quedar ahí...como mudo testigo de risas y peleas de cuatro niñas venidas de la ciudad.
No se por qué pero mi abuela tenía la rara costumbre de apodar a sus perros con las marcas de autos. Y aunque muy pobre, ella tenía un Chevy , un Ford y hasta un Lancia tuvo un día..., como se divertía cuando lo contaba. Era una mujer sabia mi abuela...
Y después de colmar nuestras almas con miles de aventuras, como caminar descalzas por el arroyo , comer uvas en la quinta , subir mil veces la montaña, ir de compras al pueblo , volver cansadas...
Llegaba el día que jamás queríamos que llegara. Volver a casa, y solíamos enojarnos, yo hasta lloraba. Pero la vida suele ser así, y hasta los sueños más bellos un día se acaban
Y ese colectivo gigante estacionaba y nuestras tristezas se hacían polvo por esas calles blancas....y mi abuela. Ahí paradita con su mano levantada entre el verde de las montañas, era como una florecita cada vez más pequeña en la infinita distancia...
Al llegar aca, te doy las gracias, porque has dedicado unos minutos de tu tiempo a leer un post lleno de mucho sentimiento y valores, gracias y exitos para vos tambien nos seguimos leyendo prontito.
Dear hive users, I bring you a short story where I narrate the holidays of 5 girls who were sisters and spent their vacations in a beautiful place full of wonderful stories, such as the countryside but specifically in the humble but cozy house of their grandmother.
I hope you like this story and fill you with beautiful memories.
a beautiful field
at grandma's house
We would go on that vacation to my grandmother's house in the summer, it was everything a child would wish they had.
A white house nestled in the mountains, a spectacular stream in the fresh air. Pure and above all field as far as the eye could see and beyond, everything was field .. To be able to run left and right, of course. This was not something my mother liked, she was like a hen with her chicks, trying to protect them, pecking them wanting to keep them together and still ...
Those summer nights seemed to have the magic of stories, with the croaking of frogs, the concert of crickets ... and the moon. It looked like a lighthouse lighting the road that looked like a zigzagging silver snake.
Children usually have great imaginations and those nights only lit by the kerosene lamp used to frighten us, the long shadows that in the courtyard or on the walls drew strange ghosts.
The voices of my mother and my grandmother became monotonous in the kitchen, hour after hour. Until the eyes began to give their last lashes, suddenly the door opened and to our peace of mind it was my uncle ..
Because if there is something that my uncle had, it was the habit of being a good son, it did not matter whether day or night, always. But I always took my grandmother for a spin. I remember him well with his striped bag bringing corn for the chickens, "they make chinitas." He told us, and that voice reassured us, tall and thin, he would suddenly disappear almost as he had arrived. He had that particularity of resembling the Angels that you know they are even if they leave ...
I remember well that smell of firewood when my mother and my grandmother cooked, that aroma will remain forever stuck in my soul.
My grandmother's room, small but fine
Neat used to have those objects that you remember forever because they remained in the retina of childhood, a picture of bright colors of the heart of Jesus hung over the back of the bed, the small night table, a few ornaments, the doll without legs and the giraffe. We used to play with the giraffe and it was even a reason for a dispute between sisters, we would walk it around the patio and when we left it would stay there again ... as a silent witness to the laughter and fights of four girls who had come from the city.
I don't know why, but my grandmother had a weird habit of nicknamed her dogs after car brands. And although very poor, she had a Chevy, a Ford and even a Lancia she had one day ..., as she amused herself when she told it. She was a wise woman my grandmother ...
And after filling our souls with thousands of adventures, such as walking barefoot along the stream, eating grapes on the farm, climbing the mountain a thousand times, going shopping in town, coming back tired ...
The day was coming that we never wanted to come. Coming home, and we used to get mad, I even cried. But life is usually like this, and even the most beautiful dreams will one day end
And that giant bus would park and our sadness would turn to dust on those white streets ... and my grandmother. There she stands with her hand raised among the green of the mountains, she was like a little flower getting smaller and smaller in the infinite distance ...
Upon arriving here, I thank you, because you have dedicated a few minutes of your time to read a post full of feelings and values, thank you and success for you too, we will continue reading soon.
I am not sure this fits the #MarketFriday Tag. Check out the rules:
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Hello, I apologize for the mistake made, I used that label in the wrong way.
It is not a problem at all. Have a wonderful day!