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Halley's Comet

In the summer of 1986, my 14-year-old brother carried me on his shoulders so I could be a little closer to the sky. And that early morning, we watched Comet Halley's amazing transit which is only visible from Earth every 76 years. Back in class, my brother's Geography teacher asked if anyone had a living relative who had seen the comet in its last perihelion. My brother raised his hand: - “I do! My great-grandfather saw the comet when he was ten.” The teacher walked across the classroom, stood next to my brother about to award him, and said to the class: - “Look at this. Here we have an extraordinary case: a great-grandfather who has managed to see the comet twice.” - “Oh… No teacher, just once”, said my brother. - “But how? Didn’t you just tell us he is still alive?” - “Yes, but he is blind now.” The teacher scolded my brother for making a joke about something so serious. But there was never anything so solemn as that last vacation at grandpa’s village when my brother
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The wheat days

I haven't left the house for days and i t ' s b e e n even longer since I combed my hair. As I st o o d in front of the bathroom mirror, I took a few strands of hair and straightened them with the flat iron. How curious... My hair is now blonde, but I don't remember dy ing it , and if I had, it would have seemed an inappropriate color to me . Then I remembered my mother... those days when she was very sad because she felt that the world was falling apart, she used to g r ab a delicious beer. But she didn't drink it. She w o u ld pour it into a bowl and take it out to sunbathe on the balcony until it p r e tty much boiled. O nc e it cool e d d o w n she w o u ld spill it ov er her head; and her hair, which was already light, turned very blonde. While I straighten my last  lock of  hair,  I think of The Fox from The Little Prince for whom wheat meant nothing before because unlike humans he did not eat bread. But now, every time he went through a wheat field, he wou
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Two country girls in town

In 1939, a young country girl walks through the streets of the Panamanian capital, Panama city, when she comes face to face with another girl from her village. They hug each other with tears on their faces because they thought they would never see each other again. One of them escaped a year ago in search of a new world without anyone knowing her whereabouts. The other girl was brought in a few days before to take care of a sick relative. Now the friends hook each other's arms and walk on the sidewalks, talking and looking at everything... Suddenly, one of them stops at the entrance of one of the n e i ghb o r h o o d houses because she i s curious about something that called her attention. At the end of a dark hallway, she can see a sunny patio and a man maneuvering with a strange device. Oh, he's a photographer! Come on! She says to her friend. Excuse me, sir, how much does it cost to take a picture? Asked the other one. They have never taken a photo. They rummage in the
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Treacherous breezes

It's cold. It is the third day that I wake up at 4 in the morning in this Central American town, which is fiery in the day and very cold after midnight. It's not like Toronto winter, but it's like those treacherous early spring mornings when the icy breeze coming from Lake Ontario catches you off guard. I wrap a scarf around my neck and press my fingers into the pockets of my jacket. My husband walks 4 or 5 meters in front of me. Behind, looking at the tips of my boots, I recite a poem that speaks of an indigenous woman who always walks slowly behind her stern man. Along the avenue a street repair is in progress. A worker in a helmet and vest who gives instructions to the others, sees me go by and approaches. I become irritated by him, but he only tells me what anyone would say: "It's cold, eh!". How nice! He looks like Robert Redford, an actor my mother liked. "Oh yes, it's cold," I manage to answer. The man walks beside me and talks to me. He&#
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