My grandmother used to rub pieces of yellow cotton with aloe vera on the blue wounds of my brown back, made by the barbed wires from when I came back from running on the countryside at night.
Freshly cut from her garden, she said the new breeds of cotton would calm the anger that I so easily inherited from my Dad, and as she cured the old blue wounds that sat on my arms, with a voice reprehensive but soft, she said: “Las señoritas no podemos ir por ahí corriendo de noche, mija”. And then she started painting with teal words the sweet but melancholic memory of my brother, who used to be a treasure in this house.
My little brother and I started running when he was 7 and I was 9.
One night, I heard someone trying to open the wooden window on the room next door. I jumped out of bed, scared and alarmed, but trying to be brave as the room next door was my brother’s. And there he was, standing at the border of the window, ready to climb down the mango tree next to our grey concrete house, he didn’t had to try, that kid was the bravest person you’ll meet.
He turned his head and noticed me, and with a mischievous but excited yellow smile he said: “¡Vamos Joa!”. And of course I followed him.
And as we climbed down from the tree and hit the ground I could see the most stunning blue of all nights, it was hot, always is, the moon was yellow, and so where the stars, and even the crops on my granny’s garden where somehow irradiating the yellow light that was merging with the blue wind.
Out of nowhere, my brother started to run, and I, curious and worried, ran after him. He started to laugh and as we ran I realized he had no direction, neither purpose, he just felt like running, like Forrest Gump. And we continued to laugh and tease each other into the blue and yellow night.
But now, the only thing that reminds from that is my blue tears that are running through my brown cheeks, as my granny is embracing my blue wounds with her yellow loving kindness.