was born on an island in the river, and grew up in a big house and poor, regularly inundated by the floods. Tied to a table leg in the kitchen was fixed and ready to use a wooden boat. His father I met recently, I was too young to remember: her, him, remembers only the hand-rolled cigarettes. His mother died before I was born, I do not know anything about her. Or rather, I only know that he was an alcoholic, and that "a woman is not safe to drink." On her wedding day, wedding dress, after crossing the river with his brother walked for three miles, the road dust, humidity, the bank, to get sweaty at the altar.
Her name is Bruna and my grandmother, and I can not even imagine whether sad or happy. I see the calluses on his hands dry, and thick blue veins of the legs, in tight stockings pressure. I hear his voice bitter, when out of the church, the gypsy who asks a coin, meets between his teeth: "I do not anything anyone has ever given me."
It was a very beautiful woman, and now does not want to be photographed.
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