Inside, I still remember the house walls losing their color. A set of bags lined up in my mother's room, one on top of another, marking the perfect synchrony to feel that something was wrong. And her gaze, as she curled her shoulder over the pillow stuffed with tarot Arcane cards, with the full conviction that to remain in this world, you only need to remain.
Outside, my father returns walking; the tear of his footprints was a stand for conviction: "It will get better." Meanwhile, days were counted as an ignition sequence, so the ceiling of the living room shall surrender to gravity and bury a dinner, a breakfast, or wake some of us upon the middle of the night.
Here, only a memory is repeated. Accommodated, placed, framed, fit, and dislocated with the way we see things.