the child is taken from the left hand of his grandfather, entering National difficulty climbing the stairs with gray and worn. His eyes opened wide, his hair and ears covered by the cap she knitted woolen his grandmother a few months ago, now defunct (and love as a song on the eyelids moved forward). Is the smell of candied peanuts, flags with only 7 star great grandfather's hands on the child's hands, looking excited at all corner of a horizon that seems endless. Are your lips narrowed, the scarf that almost touches the floor, filled with pieces of paper, cigarette butts, drinking glasses, plastic wrappers. Is the field with his players, with music from the loudspeakers, with the puzzled look of a child holding the warm hand of his grandfather. Is the Scottish blanket, the boxes of chocolate milk, bologna loaves made his grandmother's house (the boy looked like doing), his tender hands and worried, his gestures of love and life, the kiss on the forehead, a kiss on the past and a future eternal absence. Is the child on his grandfather's Scottish blanket covered by a red vest, faded jeans and white sneakers with the laces undone, listening to stories told by his grandfather, watching the silence of his mouth more, his gaze hard and beautiful, her small gesture of joy, his hand on the little hand child's cold. Is the child down the stairs, up the car from his grandfather, listening to the comments of an unknown gentleman on the radio, running down the entrance hallway to hug and tell her grandmother what I saw, shouted and quiet. It hugs the child lost in the past, watching the shadows of memory. Is the boy hiding behind the curtains, playing with her grandparents, before their parents pick them up. Is children playing. Is the child, hugging her grandmother, in many photographs worn, kept in beautiful albums. Luis Felipe Oyarzun
mountains 
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