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Martín and Lucio play. Sometimes they fight, other times they are accomplices. Little by little, Martín and I argue less. Although I am almost always at home, whenever I spend some time with my children I feel as if they were inviting me to inhabit a unique, special place. As if I were a foreigner who never quite manages to be here for more than a few moments at a time… Yesterday we killed a tiger, we rested in my bedroom, they took off their clothes, we built a train. Today, Lucio talked to my breasts, we ate candies on the steps outside the kitchen door, we took photos.


It is so strange to know that this is a time that will not remain fixed in their memories. They will grow up not remembering this or any other afternoon. At the same time, I feel certain that every one of these moments is building them, consolidating who they are. To me, they are a gift that I must enjoy as if it were a breath of air that quickly vanishes. I have never confronted the ephemeral this way. It has to do with memory, with this need to have moments last in the memories of others, so that they will become real… I feel that being with my children is like inhabiting the realm of the ephemeral, and at the same time, of that which endures. Very strange. Perhaps because I knew nothing about children. Or affection.

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