Clouds as the ones I saw last week in Castille; clouds in the sky, clouds in the eyes of my old auntie. I’ve never realised that her eyes are of a deep-blue, almost violet shade. I didn’t recall the colour, as she doesn’t remember well where she’s lived for the past forty years, but remembers perfectly their (her and my mom’s) small village in Aragon, and asked me many times during my visit if I ever return to the pueblo. I’ve been there only once when I was I guess ten years old, for the funeral of a distant unknown relative.
What is worse when growing old, to have a clear mind trapped in a dying body or having a relatively well-functioning one for a 86 year-old but with a mind full of clouds and gaps? One of the things that have shocked me the most during my visit was not the reflection of time in a once well-known body, nor when she told me Do you know that G. [me] will visit me also?, but the lack of books in her room. I always remember my aunt’s bedroom and house full of books; most of them dealing with philosophy, or religion. Therefore, if that’s the dilemma, if the price to pay to have at the end a happy but absent mind in a decadent body is to give up books, I guess I’d rather choose a clear mind trapped in a dying body.