"Writing is not hiding our madness". (Arnaldo Jabor) All that year it didn't rain in our region. Everything died. The grayish caatinga seemed to have died of leprosy. A leprosy that spread graying everything, even the crying turned into a grunt with clenched teeth. We no longer cried to death. Gradually and gradually we said goodbye to everything and everyone. All the cattle died of thirst and hunger. The pack mule, all the animals. It seems that Dad only expected Grandma's death. For it was certain that he would not be able to bear the painful journey to the Southeast.
