Singular death: My Mother Still I remember, as one was today, with wealth of details, of the day where my mother told the last days to me of life of its mother. It counted this history with the small eyes covered for a brightness that was not habitual, as well as history also was not common. It started speaking of day 17 of April of 1942, the day of the death of its mother, Josefina Carioto, to the eighty and five years? after a disease of five months, in the house where she lived per sixty and six years. was telling During the disease, my mother was example of faith and resignation to that with it they had coexisted, especially to its five children, in which indelvel left a mark. Everything started in a certain day of September of 1941, when my mother appeared in the door of my house. It did not act as of custom. Of this time, it she entered and soon one sat down, exactly before taking off the clogs. She surprised to see me it so serious.
She seemed abated, tired and afobada. I offered a coffee to it, a tea, but it rejected them. We talk a little on ' ' il nostri afari' ' as it was said in the Italian dialect; later it said with trembling voice and look that one was perhaps the last time that would go in my house. I lost the voice per some minutes. It would be playing with me; my mother would be being ' ' caduca' '? Not, my mother, not. I asked if it was feeling some thing. It said that she felt yes, but was not pain; what it felt is that little time would live ' ' Yesterday, during all the day, I heard the bell to beat. I stopped to listen.