Full of work, in each place, each one with some care… “we will stay another day”. I have an increasing sense of loss when I can’t stop with someone, I don’t understand “another day” becoming a reality. Now I always think maybe it was the last chance. An old list has brought me back to that certainty: the list of books that were coming in the readings. One of those long summers that changed your life, without defining what kind of readers we would still be. La regenta, Laudano and vehemence, Vive, La conjura de los necios, Peru Abarka, Raices, Mumia Abu-Jamal… from the gallery of death, Narrations, Sargo, The pillars of the earth… That list was requested by a professor. This professor noticed a reader in class and turned him into a writer. And I was waiting for the opportunity to thank him, although in every achievement I have wanted to embrace him, I was hoping.

I do not know, in principle, what is important to maintain a reading fondness, adapt a good teacher or fall in love with the professor’s Basque. The two things happened to me, and in each of the works they sent us, I tried not to show up. Fortunately, the professor kept seeing that sasi-wise student, boy, and in order to introduce him to Urruzuno, that story that was on a notebook sheet with pencil typed by him. He recommended the books. I was severely criticized by some of the criticisms I made. She saw my son but she treated me as an adult. Writer. And it will seem like little to you, but a young woman doesn't always get that deal after publishing the books.

“I’ll ever meet him at Orereta’s parties,” he thought. I wanted to thank him. A couple of years ago I was told that he died. I will never be reconciled with death, I hate it. And I am instrumentalizing this column and using it for personal interest, to exorcise a painful “thank you”. And one tip: thank you as soon as possible.