So now?

A todos los que en su infancia tenían un escondite secreto...

There, standing

silent and conscious,

a child’s play

under the chocolate table.

Flying high

with coloured pencils

that still

and still echo on an adolescent mind.

There, waiting

with a sheet of paper,

scrabbled

and then, given as a present.

Smelling old wood,

pepper, and olive oil

that squeaks

and squeaks on her deep memory.

Drafts of nothing,

of legs walking round the hiding-place,

of laughs reverberating,

of an empty room.

Silence.