The Favourite

It was already late when she entered my room that night. I was afraid she had come to check if I was asleep as I was supposed to, but she sat by my side and started talking, stroking my hair. She knew I was awake. Mothers always do. I could smell the distinctive scent of her nightgown and the hand cream she always applied before going to bed. She talked in a smooth voice, the kind you use to soothe a child, almost a whisper. Continue reading


The house was old, as were they. It was incredible how long and well they lived. When mom died, we were sure dad would soon follow. They had that synchrony, that balance, as if one were the natural extension of the other. And to think they had that big weird fight long ago, when we were children. Two and a half weeks without talking, mom crying on the corners, dad avoiding her by any means. Continue reading

The Other Side

She had always hated that part. The obligation of advancing little by little, letting the body adjust to the changes. It was not just the darkness. There was also the cold, the humidity, the noises. A different setting, different vegetation, different fauna. And the smell. That was what she hated the most, the stench. Continue reading


“What are you going to do with all that?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Jeff was helping me with my father’s stuff, which was by itself no small feat. Being a hungry reader, a movie buff and music aficionado, and having lived in the same rented apartment in the last two decades, there was a lot of stuff. I’ve inherited most of his habits, only translated to a more modern world. All my books, movies, and albums are digital, much to my intellectualized father’s disdain. I should have charged him for all those times he pestered me about things like the feeling of paper on one’s finger, the pleasure of going back and forth to a particular scene you like, and the pure and full sound only a vinyl record could deliver. Continue reading