's life Glare and other opacity 
Created and postpartum pain, that's what my mother said when the fatigue and boredom or guilt seized her and began talking very big open eyes, that horror when you were born, was the worst thing that has happened, you above all, the first, nearly kill me, and eyes shone with a radiance painful it was like a flash of fire over the past she did not accept this experience that she accepted, rejected, perhaps all his life well and with great anger, though my mother I never knew to what extent Anger was what she spoke. Rabies. My sister and I, still, listening trying to visualize the pain, then we thought that was pretty much pain, physical pain, pain palpable, understandable. But how see the pain of a mother who takes you to the world? How can I see, feel, experience the suffering of a mother who gives you life, you born? We looked at from time to time my sister and I, uneasy. I always wondered why my mother told us about all this, and always, always wanted to hear what she said, always attentive to the words that are not pronounced. Hearing this was also angry that my anger and my anger has always been. But still, with great care, never knew the substance of the life of my mother. You never know in depth the lives of others.
I'm not very sure about the entity called John, my husband. I think John, I've left at home and I am convinced my absence is not causing any concern whatsoever, that I have gone but as usual, that I am not as if I were, or vice versa. And yet I'm sure all this is true, this idea of \u200b\u200bJohn at home alone, among his books and papers of University, this fixed idea that I've made it over the years, and many of coexistence. I'm not really sure of anything. One thing is certain, real, understandable: this road is opened in front of me a big hug and the landscape that surrounds, trees of all colors, yellow, harvest, dark orange, green, purple, blue, almost blue times. It is autumn here and in Vermont. The air smells wood, damp earth, a fireplace. Sometimes I stop at stores along the edge of the road, small New England-style shops where one can find everything: good quality furniture, clothing, souvenirs
of all kinds, food: honey, jams typical of the region , natural cakes, made with oatmeal and raisins, fruit, cheese flavorful ...
I've always liked driving, I feel safe, strong, brave and mature. And above all I feel in control of my life. But just driving. In life, not me. My life is a journey of insecurities, fears, doubts. Or at least that is how I think it is. Nor am I sure.
is to remind my mother that I'm back here in this region so beautiful. Ten years ago my mother died and I wanted to make this trip alone and I wanted to do to decide about my relationship with John. Thinking about my mother, about her life and her anger and my life and my anger. Everything is so attached, the anger of parents with ours.
Mother, I think. How many roads we have taken not seem to you to separate yourself, to convince us that we were different. When you said, for example, that we had to marry virgins, and we had to marry a rich man. Perhaps all mothers project. The fact is that I do not virgin or married a rich man. And before I get married many lovers that one day I stopped counting. But this did not make me different from you, much less.
O alomejor was well to compensate for your dry, your coldness.
do not know.
Here in this region of northern Vermont, near Burlington, I rented a room in a hotel. Many years ago we came together you and me and John also was with us, it was autumn and here I realized for the first time your great loneliness, a mirror of mine. The accusations continued, if so, the daughters do not stop to criticize mothers mistakes. Continued until his death, in a hospital in Barcelona. Are not there any escape? Will I always be a continuation of what you were? The rage, your outlook on life and men, I have done and created, the rage I have in my skin tissue, is inseparable from my cells in my blood. Perhaps because the distance and smell the red roof of the hotel, perhaps not enough to understand the rage. I do not know. Your life was a mystery. But soon go into a room so similar to the rent for many years, I will light a fire in the fireplace and you'll see, your profile, serious and sad look again and again feel that the lives of others is always a illusion ends.
