Yo Soy

And it is not only a mischief: it is, above all, memory. Memory in love with the people who were left behind, with the family, with the music that poisoned it, with those who left. Also a wink, a somersault in time, a riddle, a dream, bits of the road traveled, as if Isabel Bayón opened an imaginary trunk that she had found in the attic of her memory and had begun to take out toys, books, photos yellow, records of when she was young, maybe some personal secret, details, skins of all previous ages.
 
César Rufino.