Here are a few words about death. Feelings that are hard to share out loud, from pain to liberation.

When someone dies, in addition to interrupting their life, they disappear. The processes of vitality and patience are so thin and so incomprehensible that when my mother was dead, I felt she moved. He disappeared suddenly without telling his daughter a word of goodbye. That improvisation, the fact that my mother is quiet in a non-gradual process, has condemned me to seek my mother over and over again.

When I have a physical pain, I'm still looking for my mother. My mother, because she's always protected me. Because it matured until it accepted things that couldn't be fixed.

When I fail, I still look for my mother. My mother, because she's always protected me. Because I believed in me, because I sewed wings.

When I lose my balance, I still look for my mother. My mother, because she's always protected me. Because it was the counterweight of the funambulists.

Every time I think about my mother, consciously, my eyes get cloudy and my facial muscles get hardened. By chance, I find myself clenching my teeth. Keep crying, after all.

So far, I hadn't understood my mother's pain when I lived. Because he had also lost his mother and then his father. And I had lived feeling all the feelings I've mentioned before.

Two years after my mother's death, my heart began to feel sweetness. I have my father. And I get a smile when I remember that it's the father that the mother chose to protect me.