Selected Cronicas

TEN YEARS OLD

— Tomorrow I shall be ten years old. I intend to make the most of this last day of my ninth year.

There is a pause. Sadness.

— Mummy, my soul is not yet ten years old.

— How old then?

— I guess about eight years old.

— Don’t worry, that’s how it should be.

— But I think we should count our years by our soul. People would then say: that chap died at twenty. And the chap had died, but with a seventy-year-old body.

Later he began to sing, then stopped and said:

— I am singing Happy Birthday to myself. But, Mummy, I haven’t really made much of my ten years.

— Yes, you have.

— No, no, I don’t mean much in the sense of doing this and that. What I mean is that I have not really been very happy. What’s wrong? Why are you looking so sad?

— I’m not sad. Come here and let me give you a kiss.

— Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say you’re looking sad? You can’t stop kissing me and when you give somebody all those kisses it’s because you’re feeling sad.