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Dias de lluvias

Memory, in particular,
resurfaces every time I think about how you started the real involvement,
the beginning of a vague intuition, which later became
knowledge that nothing would be as before.
It 's a curious image in its banality, the simple
waiting at the machine with the itch again to
engine, standing under a zinc roof on which the rain was beating
end. The mechanic looked at her without saying anything
, and occasionally glanced at me, with a half smile
indecipherable. The rain was only an excuse. No one, li,
care about getting wet, it was still warm enough
drenched the moisture, and stay under the canopy
was just a good opportunity to stop
of doing things ever. The man had an indefinable
age, perhaps he was much older than
appeared, wearing a suit which he had lost all memory
original color, and kept his hands in his pockets
without deciding to do what I hoped :
say what he thinks he had the engine and how long it would
wanted to put him back in sixth. [] He still did not say anything
, and the rain beating on the zinc plate.
The strange sensation that I felt I would have grabbed
much later: I was losing my haste, anxiety
rhythms that I had brought below began to fall apart, and the impalpable
symptom was that simple
and listen to the rain to stop to ask the mechanic how long it
would want.
My time was not the time of the reality that surrounded me
.
Until then I had misspent the illusion of
see more things going faster.
At one point, he said: "I believe that even
rain tomorrow." To my vexed expression vaguely,
man smiled and shook his head.
knew that I could not understand, but it was time
right to start trying. So, standing still, listening to the rain.

Pino Cacucci "The dust of Mexico "