Ella mecía sus manos como si tomara la brisa que llegaba a susurrarle secretos conocidos, las pasaba por su rostro envejecido y sonreía.

Siempre la veían tomar de la mano aquella otra mano que no estaba, pero se quedó en su andar, en la lentitud de sus pasos, en esa conversa que nunca termina, pero le mantiene esa caricia de cada tarde, de sus noches quietas, del calor dulce que le permite vivir a su lado.

Él está allí, siempre sirviendo de alimento a su memoria. Desde aquellos años mozos, de furtivos besos, del comentario frugal que le enrojecía las mejillas.

Allí estaba él en sus recuerdos, todos los días. Su presencia permanente, desde las seis a nueve cumpliendo su visita reglamentaria para acunar la mochila de sueños, luego toda una vida para amarse, hasta el día que un amanecer se lo presentó inerte.

Luego vinieron aquellos días dónde lo cotidiano le fue armando el tiempo para mantener aquellas manos que jugueteaban con las tardes, se sentaban en aquel banco que acunó su historia de amor en medio de una charla interminable.

Tomando la mano de él, ella llenaba el vacío con una sana y dulce nostalgia. Era una rutina necesaria para librar el dolor y la soledad. En una mímica íntima, enlazaba sus dedos. Así sentía la alegría de seguir juntos, recorriendo la geografía de sus cuerpos ajados.

Luego, se levantaba con la sobriedad del deseo, sin esperar aplausos en aquel teatro solitario, se levantaba furtiva y cauta, lo invitaba a pasar, tomaba sus manos, la sonrisa pícara en su rostro, su dulce recuerdo. Entraba y cerraba la puerta.

She swayed her hands as if she was taking the breeze that came to whisper known secrets, she passed them over her aged face and smiled.

She always saw herself holding his hand, that other hand that was not there, but remained in his walk, in the slowness of his steps, in that conversation that never ends, but keeps that caress of every afternoon, of his quiet nights, of the sweet warmth that allows him to live by her side.

He is there, always serving as food for her memory. Since those young years, of furtive kisses, of the frugal commentary that reddened her cheeks.

There he was in her memories, every day. His permanent presence, from six to nine o'clock, fulfilling his regular visit to cradle the backpack of dreams, then a lifetime to love each other, until the day that a dawn presented him inert.

Then came those days where the daily life was building the time to keep those hands that played with the evenings, they sat on that bench that cradled their love story in the middle of an endless talk.

Holding his hand, she would fill the emptiness with a healthy and sweet nostalgia. It was a necessary routine to rid the pain and loneliness. In an intimate mimicry, she linked their fingers. In this way she felt the joy of still being together, traveling the geography of their worn bodies.

Then, she would get up with the sobriety of desire, without waiting for applause in that lonely theater, she would get up furtively and cautiously, invite him in, take his hands, the mischievous smile on his face, his sweet memory. Enter and close the door.