The inhabitants of La Orotava always have a date stuck in the middle of the chest. For some amounts to an act of chauvinism outmoded. Can be. But that wound happy is at the equator of the chest of each villero is an irrefutable fact.
Once a year, we took the month of June a box of cedar, with the scent of caress lignaria. It is in that intimate moment, when we are gripped again the childhood and to remember the feel of velvet and the gaze proud of our grandparents. It is in that instant, when we get it out of the box or closet for the month of June, when it begins the symphony of fragrances, the indentation of leaves, the illusion of a reunion. Just in this transit begins -as I would say the great wizard of the land of the Teide, Pedro Hernández Méndez – to extend a gigantic carpet towards the sky from the checkerboard of the square, from the stone sweet, from the soul up, very high, to complete a puzzle of roses, chrysanthemums, heathers and geraniums. And in the end, the tread destructive without rancour or ado because “you can’t pretend that it lasts forever, which was born for a moment”.
This year of nightmare and death there will be no ritual, but you know what?, not we will need it because the slum dwellers took this wound in the chest from which flow the sands of the heights, the petals and the aroma of the heather in a short-lived stay.