One Hundred Years of Solitude

nostalgia and that of others,
he admired the persistence of
the spider webs on the dead
rose bushes, the perseverance
of the rye grass, the patience
of the air in the radiant
February dawn. And then he
saw the child. It was a dry
and bloated bag of skin that
all the ants in the world were
dragging toward their holes
along the stone path in the
garden. Aureliano could not
move. Not because he was