Tell me a story, Alfonso.

Don’t let me go to sleep without one of your stories. I want the last thing that comes with me tonight to be the steam growing in the mirror of your eyes, in the beating of the wings from the fairies that live in your voice. I want you to take me with you to that place where time trundles far from us, even if we call it by its second name. The place where the rabbit chases us to our den and my mother’s love is a red thread around my neck, tighter and tighter. 

Keep talking, Alfonso. Don’t leave me. Tell me about the dreams that swim through the air like light gliding off our hands. Tell me the story about the litter who bet its voice against the jealous lumberjack, the one about the day of the eloquent tornados, the one about the land where autumn stole the children with fingers of October. Hold my hand, please. I am scared. Tell me about that time when someone put all the happy endings in a sack and threw it to the river of the sealed envelopes; about the time when you hid the moon in the bottom of the wardrobe, and you dropped the memories of your childhood down the stairs of the barn, and you laughed as they rolled, and rolled; and rolled down in that ground filled with kisses that hadn’t yet been given. Stay with me.

Tell me about the safari you made to the day my father died. I want to keep hearing your voice while the sleep caresses my eyelids. I want you to bring my demons to this side, to empty my terrors, to spread your dreams to mine. Tell me about the forest where crossroads bite the ankle of those who are sure where they’re going, where the bread crumbs have the shape and taste of tombstones. But don’t read out loud the name carved in them. I don’t want to think that it’s me.

Keep talking, Alfonso. Take me with you to your world of shattered dreams, as my eyes close and everything turns dark, dark, dark.



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