I used to dress up in your blue silk robe on Sunday afternoons. Now I don’t drag it anymore. You perfumed my dolls to teach me how to greet him. The mirror was our only witness. I wore my green shoes whenever I went out to dinner with you. There was nothing better than the battered meat of Mas Nadal. You powdered your nose with some cottons that you kept in a small ceramic container. Your first love had given it to you. I inherited your eyebrows in the shape of an inverted “V”. And today you are still on my bedside table dressed in a leopard coat. In the photo you are next to a child. It’s Dad.