Todo lo que fuimos

This story was told to me a long time ago at an airport. Waiting rooms are curious places where life goes as it pleases and where patience is reconciled with its opposite. Observing is an art, as is listening. There is so much wisdom in any of these verbs that, if one knows how to conjugate both at the same time, one can come across unforgettable stories in the midst of the coming and going of people and anecdotes. And for this reason, sometimes doubt invades me and I don't remember if this story was told to me or if it was made up by my imagination. Be that as it may, this is the least of it, because the same thing happens to me that happens to the characters that I present to you now, and when I look back I don't know if what I tell happened or if I tell it as I remember it. Memory is treacherous to nostalgic people. You trust in the clarity of your past and memory comes with its magic and eliminates everything in one fell swoop. And he confuses us and convinces us that life happened as she tells us about it, and not as we remember it.