They have started again. One of these mornings, the little park began to sneak through the windows of the buildings like a murmur.
It was not the chirping of sparrows, but it did look alike; neither does the sound like muted music made by the flamboyant leaves when the breeze gives it to play; but it looked alike. It was a certain purr of contentment, as if the day they were scratching his belly like a giant cat in the dawn.
I leaned out the window, and there they were again. With their white pullovers, their sports pants and that tender joy that only children and those with gray hair know how to shepherd. The grandmothers had once again conquered the park to start each day with their exercises.
They all greeted each other joyfully, without kissing or hugging, but with contentment overflowing from their noses and clasping fists. They looked like schoolchildren back to school or on the beach.
It was an inconsequential event for many, it did not appear in any headline and not a single photographer appeared there. I think only I rushed to find the phone to save that image from oblivion.
It happens that they, with their exercises and their joy of coralillos, were a sure warning, one of the best confirmations that we are going out, being reborn.
