The Traveller - Parte II
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And her grandmother, again.
Telling her, a long time ago, that one day she would find someone who would be like this - and she made the gesture of two hands interlacing fingers tight.
And back to him. When she met him, she didn't know this. But had she known, she would not have related both events. One needs time to figure things out. Sometimes years.
Now she knows her words were the exact truth.
She also knows she already wrote about her grandparent's love story whithout noticing she did. In the book she wrote when she was 21, there was Baltasar, an excentric swiss boy raised by english witches, and Isadora, the volcanic spanish gipsy who stole Baltasar's heart for ever.
She smiles with the recolection. And she smiles with the fact that for years she never noticed the obvious resemblance between her own grandfather Maurice, the shy english raised in Barbados who enjoyed building little intricate devices with his hands, and Baltasar, the mad scientist who experimented on everything, from plants to his own children. Or the resemblance between the fierce Isadora who danced and sang and cooked like a lioness, and her own grandmother, the outspoken chilean who never left anything unsaid or undone.
She smiles when her mother tells her she looks more and more like her grandmother.
Abuelita liked her smokes right up until the very end.
She smoked a cigarette near the little flower spot where Abuelita rests for eternity.
And then peace, at last. For she knows Carolina knew she was there.
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