Both of her sons died the same afternoon. Both stuck together. Like baked ribs when they are pressed into the tray. Sticky and crispy.
The big one ran like a horse, knees on the ground. The boy on his back, clutching his sweater, without reins. Through the kitchen, through the living room, into the bedrooms, to the doorway and out into the street; back into the living room. The whole afternoon of laughter. Her mother halving blackberries for the topping of a cake. The last bed in white sugar. The father with the lamp on the bedside table, something was wrong with it, it was melting uncontrollably. The wires on the floor, stripped and horned. The boy on top of the big one, on horseback. The big one stepping on them with the palm of his hand, making dough. The living room smelling of burning. The father melted, on the floor, screaming, crying. The mother with her scream imprisoned. The children burning, the boy on top of the big one, the two of them glued together.
Aroche, 1971. Artist by attitude. Devotee of the Virgin of the Ataraxia. Inventionist by creed. Activist performer. In high esteem to the purria. Expert in softness. Lover of the craft. First Fan of the moor concept. Develops projects and anti-projects.