One day in April, no matter the year, the pines of the fence began to bleed. All of us, seekers of nests, looked puzzled and, children at the end, we went to the grownups to explain this phenomenon to us.
Avelino, the winemaker, Galician, sweet-natured and generous, he said that the same thing happened in Spain, it was the blood of Christ, soon to be crucified, which ran from his brow crowned with thorns.
Juan, who was renting bicycles, a frustrated engineer and foul-mouthed, explained that the pine dripped red when the wind came from the south, when women and hens were brooding.
Rosalba, of the rose garden, beautiful even in her old age, told us that the pine was very sensitive and, every so often, the pain produced by the barbed fences made it bleed.
With all these explanations in mind, we all went back to the pines and spent the afternoon watching them bleed. When it started to get dark, we returned to our homes a little sad. Along the way I was thinking: how wonderful that the pines are bleeding, which can make the adults know so many interesting things! Back in the house, I did not ask my mother and when she came to put me to sleep I realized that the pints were crying blood because we only notice them once a year.
April 17 2011
