My father, a knife in one hand, blood and a handful of entrails profesionally hunging from the other, the sight already drawing the path that the cut will trace later, the greedy dance of the knife that will steal from the pig even the last piece of meat. My father with a knife in a hand, saying me 'take hold of this' while he gives me the entail tree without looking, before sinking again in what before, absurdly shortly before, was a living and healthy pig. And little blood drops falling from a lung, splattering in the dust. And I scaring away flies, for they don't know about bereavements. 

My father arrived at the unending plain that was Argentina, being barely a lad, and they assigned him a mare. A circle of smiling cowboys watched him approach the animal, that puffed and blew and stomped over the flattened soil of the yard. One foot in the stirrup, and the animal turns about, hardly held by the bridle and my father's pulse. Laughter, behind. Second try, second laughter. And my father who jumps over the animal's back and presses his legs around her, and the mare that once defeated the surprise starts galloping, and my father with the unending plain around him, so different from the usual up and down of the Gredos mounts where he had been raised, who screams to the animal 'sooner or later you'll get tired!'

An eternity later my father, between claps, returns to the yard, driving back his exhausted mount.

The blood that runs through my veins..