Mi triciclo rojo.
My red tricycle.
Hacía ya mucho tiempo que no venía a casa, demasiado, para ser sinceros. Me sorprendió al entrar que todo parecía seguir en el mismo sitio, como si todo se hubiese congelado en el tiempo, como si solamente hubiese salido por una gaseosa a la esquina y ya estuviera de regreso.
Mi madre me estaba preparando un café y hablaba desde la cocina contándome las últimas novedades del barrio. Que María se había casado, que Pedro había embarazado a Martita, la chica de la esquina, que a Julián lo habían atracado una noche mientras volvía a casa. Siempre había una historia para contar.
Mientras la escuchaba daba un paseo por los recuerdos, algo incrédulo de que nada había cambiado. Me daba mucho sentimiento, había tantos recuerdos. Estaba aquel estante que rompimos cuando niños aun sin reparar, los envases de pintura nuevos en la sala, pero las paredes aun sin pintar o a medio pintar, esperando que llegara el momento para terminarlas, el monte creciendo en el patio, y la casa en sí parecía seguir esperando.
En la mesa, estaba un viejo álbum de fotografías, recuerdo que de pequeño solía revisarlo, y preguntarle a mi mamá por las historias de cada fotografía. Y a medida que iba creciendo, iba escribiendo mi propia historia y agregando nuevas fotografías al álbum.
It had been a long time since I had been home, too long, to be honest. I was surprised when I walked in that everything seemed to be still in the same place, as if everything had been frozen in time, as if I had just gone out for a soda on the corner and was already on my way back.
My mother was making me coffee and talking from the kitchen telling me the latest news from the neighborhood. That Maria had gotten married, that Pedro had knocked up Martita, the girl on the corner, that Julian had been mugged one night on his way home. There was always a story to tell.
As I listened to her I took a walk down memory lane, somewhat incredulous that nothing had changed. It gave me so much feeling, there were so many memories. There was that bookshelf we broke as kids still unrepaired, the new paint containers in the living room, but the walls still unpainted or half painted, waiting for the time to finish them, the bush growing in the yard, and the house itself still seemed to be waiting.
On the table, there was an old photo album, I remember as a kid I used to go through it, and ask my mom for the stories in each picture. And as I grew older, I would write my own story and add new photographs to the album.
Lo hojeé por curiosidad y me encontré con esta foto. La foto de mi triciclo rojo.
Es increíble lo rápido que pasa el tiempo. Una vez que aprendí a caminar, luego a pedalear, seguí avanzando sin detenerme y sin mirar atrás, y hoy, luego de tanto tiempo, observo como todo a mi alrededor siguió avanzando, pero en mi casa, el tiempo se detuvo esperando que yo tuviera tiempo para volver.
Y nunca tuve tiempo.
I flipped through it out of curiosity and came across this photo. The photo of my red tricycle.
It's amazing how fast time goes by. Once I learned to walk, then to pedal, I kept moving forward without stopping and without looking back, and today, after so long, I observe how everything around me kept moving forward, but at home, time stood still waiting for me to have time to go back.
And I never had time.
Saludos amigos de Hive y a toda la comunidad de escritores de @freewritehouse, el día de hoy les comparto mi participación en este ejercicio literario de la semana ⏩ A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words
Greetings friends of Hive and the entire community of writers of @freewritehouse, today I share with you my participation in this literary exercise of the week.⏩ A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words
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Time flies but it is good to have pictures to relive all the great things we did plus to see how fast and much we learned.
Thanks for joining pic1000. 👍
It's always a step after the other
Our memories lingers on especially the funny and amazing ones