Then, never better weighted the baptism of false nails aunts. He was seven years old, just like my youngest son, when I met aunt Paulina. It was the dearest friend of my mom. With her breast were encouraged to come one your soul, from other family members, to a Buenos Aires, which had nothing to do with his native Santa Fe. The same Buenos Aires, which encandilaba when you had other travelers who went to his province or the great capital city, similar to Paris. He was scared the aires few modest so different to the natives of his homeland. But the Capital offered work and the possibilities of its people already could not give him.
And so, that fulfilled the adult age he came with her friend of the soul. Larger than it, even. With the aunt Pauline. As not loving her, if it was she who had comforted the tears of mother, throughout the trip by train, while the noise of the locomotive could not cradling it. As not wanting to aunt Paulina, who took literally and metaphorically MOM’s hand and held it until MOM, left of surprising a little bit nomas and could learn to walk a bit lonely in the big city. And when despite follow already misses it his them is single, it was the turn to me.
She was that weaving wool hats, because he said that winter was crude and cooled me ears and a girl with cold ears could not think properly and was necessary for the days that ran well think. Or that on behalf of the harsh winter and behind the back of MOM, who knew but who was it who didn’t know, gave me chocolates. And was that I defended and was telling MOM: you not retes it, it is a girl. And I grew up, and continued to grow and one day aunt Paulina was very old lady to come and a day didn’t know more than she. MOM said that he died.