Thursday, January 19
CASTILLA Íbamos en el coche a Ponferrada, donde mi abuelo se asfixiaba poco a poco. Mi padre conducía con los ojos anémicos, sin mirar el paisaje: Castilla era su padre y se estaba muriendo. Yo pensaba en Machado. Cruzábamos las nubes por la meseta, horizonte de arcilla, pinares apretados donde fuimos salvajes y hubo sol. Las vides retorcidas por el frío. Los hilos del telégrafo, aquel toro. Íbamos en el coche al hospital de Ponferrada. El mundo era franela, y era adobe. Silicosis del tiempo. Yo pensé: Leonor. ¿Qué pensaba mi padre? Castilla era su padre. Y se acababa. (Martha Asunción Alonso) CASTILLA We were on our way to Ponferrada, where my grandad was choking, little by little. My father drove with anaemic eyes, no thought for the scenery: Castilla was his father, and it was dying. I was thinking about Machado. We crossed the clouds of the meseta, a clay horizon, dense forests of pine, where we were wild and there was sun. Vines contorted by cold. Telegraph wires, that bull. We were on our way to the hospital in Ponferrada. The world was flannel and adobe. Silicosis of time. I thought: Leonor. What was my father thinking? His father was Castilla, coming to an end. (Translated by Robin Mumby)