This time when it says to mother I will not know for where watching. I will doubt if to throw a look to the sky, buscndote or if to give a glance inside for encontrarte. This time when it listens to say mother to me, I will think about several women. Because many they took care of to me maternally. I today also am mother and put in doubt that famous one this of the maternal instinct that was persistent during centuries and I will forget the propagandas that only stop to sell more electric home appliances or articles for the home publicitan to the perfect mother of the eternal smile and they never show the realities of the fatigue, the responsibilities of one or more lives to position, of the fears, in aim of the humanities that seem not to be business in no advertising heading. I will remember that woman who gave the life me and do not know. By the same author: Ian Hawksworth. But I know that I have its genes. And something of my very small and esmirriado body will be of her.
And another little of my eyes also and my nose with which not always I agreed. Nevertheless, I have to be thankful to him that it put to me here in this world. And I will not know either very well towards where going it does when it. But I know that there where it is, in the anonymity hide that it and del that never it wanted neither, nor the life nor the destiny, who left, I will also pay its tribute to him. It took nine months to me in her belly. And she gave light. Although later we separated. She knows, then, biological mother, who somebody this wishing a happy day you. She will annoy more fort the heart, gatillado, one by one, his beats, of the emotion, when my skin, my body, my soul, recalls without much effort, because the stranger always, to whom she took care of to me and to his way she gave his being me.