Non estaba día de praia, aínda que había un pouco de sol o aire ía fresco e non apetecía sacar a camiseta. A app do móbil daba chuvia para esa mesma noite.
As nenas chegaron carrexando sen esforzo a vitalidade que faltaba nos pais. Conversas de adulto, política, vacacións, distancias; preguntas nas que os ollos procuran o afastado horizonte.
As nenas berraban cantos estridentes, facían piruetas, salpicaban, coreaban o meu nome cando nadaba cara as boias amarelas. Fixemos o pino xuntos, saltamos dunha rocha collidos da man, fixemos o parvo, pasámolo ben.
Ao teléfono comezaban a chegar os mails da compañía aérea, pola tarxeta de embarque. Na sua cabeza unha tristura fonda que tentaba sacudirse naquelas areas efímeras, antes da inevitable partida. Definitivamente, esa noite chovería.
Chances of rain
It wasn’t a beach day, although there was a bit of sun, the air was cool and you didn’t feel like taking your shirt off. The mobile app predicted rain for that same night.
The girls arrived effortlessly carrying the vitality that was lacking in their parents. Adult conversations, politics, holidays, distances; questions in which the eyes seek the distant horizon.
The girls screamed shrill songs, pirouetted, splashed, chanted my name as I swam toward the yellow buoys. We did handstands together, we jumped off a rock holding hands, fooled around, had a good time.
Emails from the airline began to arrive on the phone, regarding the boarding pass. In her head a deep sadness that she tried to shake off on those ephemeral sands, before the inevitable departure. It would definitely rain that night.
abel abilheira 