His site was full of vicarious pitahayas, and the sweet smell of matches gourds scattered everywhere, a different flavor to the idea of Aunt Dahlia gardens full of roses, as Mom would have wanted in our own, but for the climate barely left the poppies flourish and begonias. Desert Rose is what we need, said the grandmother, watching the blooming pitahayas the other side of the fence. As no had children my age in the neighborhood, except the gang of ass mud, living in reality the other side of the pasture that separated our neighborhood of the villages near the high school, and periodically engaged in robbing our house, my solitude was broken when he went to visit my cousin’s house, or he visited me.

We built cities in the courtyard, with volcanoes and miniature artificial lakes till the afternoon, when rain and we used to recruit in the inner corridor to see the rain drinking chocolate undo our work. The rain lasted for hours and flooded the courtyard to enter the water to the corridor and the hall of the house, becoming a great little lake that we filled in colorful paper cones.

The next day everything was mud and dozens of paper boats lining the patio. The mud slowly dried in the sun and thereby transformed into a clay mud we did with the jars and indigenous objects, such as those we had seen here and there, with heads of cats or birds. That was the ass real business of the mud, making vases and jars to the Indian style. .