El caserón destartalado, musgo en las paredes, en los cielos rasos, I had been there for weeks, I had been ignored for weeks, until that last night when I was invited into their den. The woman was my aunt, however she was not my aunt, somehow. There was a litany of what was bad in that old house, missing wood panels on the walls, damp in the ceilings, yet, the magazine editor was too circling the house, the family, dropping hints of how good it would look on the fashion magazine pages after it had been done up… I also noticed that Amelia, the old woman master of the kitchen, was no longer there, that immense wood burning cooker I had fond memories of, glimpsing from the gallery into that forbidding place, was no longer there, either. The kitchen was Amelia, and that cast iron cooker. My enquiries drew no response.
This was half a century ago. This was now.