One Hundred Years of Solitude

of solitude, bearing no cross
on her back, maturing in her
dreams without nightmares,
her interminable baths, her
unscheduled meals, her deep
and prolonged silences that
had no memory until one
afternoon in March, when
Fernanda wanted to fold her
brabant sheets in the garden
and asked the women in the
house for help. She had just
begun when Amaranta
noticed that Remedios the