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In the Pyrenees, there is a place, crouching near the end of a narrow valley, surrounded by high mountains and grim. A peculiar place where the air smells likeBach, where the food has a certain taste of Wagner and where thinking is not only permitted but is mandatory standard. That place is lladore, the epicenter where it fuses the words of Ausias March, with the harsh words of a farmer for his cows,

There is always a dish to share with a friend, a glass to toast. and also, a can of Coke for  the “germaneta” his sister, me.

There is breathed of home, love and affection. Nowadays, the  house smiles thanks to the  music that all the time  runs its old wooden beams as before the sap run through them, their windows that often leave the wonderful flavors that cascade spells in their kitchen, also let in the scent of spring, fall moisture and from time to time the flight of a bird who  missed his way. I do not know if that house lived better times but surely she knew worse times. On the first floor, in the only balcony, written on stone, at the mercy of the cold weather and, miraculously respected by history and by the man  we can read these words

“In the Pyrenees 26/06/38 My dear girlfriend these short letters are to inform you that I am in good health and is what I wish for you in the company of your parents. Health”

They are words, words orphans, with no return address but with a recipient. I doubt  if that  girl came to read, if she knew how, these letters, probably  she never knew about. Maybe they met again. Perhaps they heard from each other. I don’t know
Focusing the lens of my camera on the wall, I could not stop thinking about my parents and in that picture that I keep in a closet. The photograph of a bride and groom like this anonymous couple from the wall, a couple who lived the separation of war.

His words are still there, I guess in the end the sun, the snow had just won the game, but now I have those words saved on my computer and also  in my heart.