By Barbara Audisio
I remember everything.
My name is Maia, I have thirty-eight years and I’m the youngest of four brothers and sisters.
The memories came afloat to the surface about an hour ago, while preparing the backpack determinated to leave and put inside a jersey. In that moment, I reminded that was not mine, but of my brother Marcus, the oldest one.
“I should give it back,” I thought.
Memories back to mind with the same force that has a wave if you stay close to the shore, when it, takes a running start and preparing to crashing on the beach sand.
Tears began to warm up the skin of the cheek, to fall to the ground, while Stay watching me lying on the ground next to the door. He does not leave me a moment, follow me even when I move from room to room.
I sat on the bed, whit anxious breath.
The last person I heard before losing contact with reality was my sister Laila, on the phone. She was worried, but not agitated, her voice steady, the words spoken quickly, but whitout panic.
He asked me how it was going here, if I was able to find uncontaminated water, if there was still calm in the country and recommended me to stock up. I remember having said that I would have amassed as much as possible tanks in the garage…