One Hundred Years of Solitude

through the windows and go
out through the doors to the
yard and leave the
whitewashed walls and
furniture tanned by the
saltpeter of the dead. Her
hunger for earth, the cloc-cloc
of her parents bones, the
impatience of her blood as it
faced Pietro Crespis passivity
were relegated to the attic of
her memory. All day long she
would embroider beside the
window, withdrawn from the