A mi abuela, un ángel que me arrulla en la distancia. Cuántas veces contemplé los tejados de colores alegres en Reyjavík, intentando reconocer los que dejé en otra isla. La memoria me jugaba malas pasadas y entonces podía sustituir el rojo intenso por aquellas tejas desteñidas, castigadas por el sol, los aguaceros y el abandono.
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