Excerpt from Pedro Paramo by Juan Rulfo

““I am sleeping in the same bed where my mother died many years ago; on the same mattress, under the same black wool blanket that used to cover both of us when were sleeping. Then, I slept by her side, in a little place she made for me under her arms.
I think I still can hear the slow pulsation of her breathing, and the sighs with which she lulled my sleep… But none of that is real. I am in a black box like those they use to bury the dead. Because I am dead.
I can feel the place where I am, and I think…
I think of when the lemons ripen. Of the wind in February breaking the stems of the bracken when the lack of care makes it dry up. Of the ripe lemons filling the patio with their odor.
The wind came down from the mountains on those February mornings. And the clouds were up there waiting for the weather that lets them fall down into the valley, leaving the blue sky empty, so that the light shines down with the wind, making circles on the ground, blowing the dust, and rocking the branches of the orange trees.
And the sparrows chirped; they pecked the leaves that the wind had blown off the trees, and they chirped while they did that; they left their feathers on the branches, and they chased butterflies and chirped some more. It was that time of the year.
I remember the February mornings full of wind, and sparrows, and blue sky. That was when my mother died. I probably shouted and my hands must have been torn to shreds after wringing out my despair. You would have liked the way things were. But maybe you were not happy that morning. The wind blew through the open door, rustling stems of the ivy. The hair between the veins on my legs began to rise, and my warm hands trembled as they touched my breasts. The sparrows were enjoying themselves. In the fields the corn was waving in the wind. I felt sorry that she would no longer be able to see the wind in the jasmines, that her eyes were closed to the light of day. But why was I going to cry?”

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