I remember the light at noon; it crept in from the right side of the room. The afternoons were long with warm shade, mainly because the room faced west. Perhaps that’s the reason that my spatial awareness is so sharp. Memories of my childhood are projected in an uninhabited space where years of dust accumulated.

The sun heated the large living room like a greenhouse, so Sundays felt like summer, even in winter. Now it looks cold, only dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through tired, closed blinds. Sounds of jazz and bossa nova, rhythms from the 50s and 60s, still reverberate in the blurry space, especially those by Stan Getz and Astrud Gilberto.

I feel a faded nostalgia, because this place was my home only at times. An interrupted home when my parents traveled, and caused continuous temporary moves to my grandparents’ house. However, the return was always welcome.

For many years, seasons moved back and forth, and afternoons after school were dreamy moments of childhood and adolescence. A period affected by historical changes during the progress of a country that was forging a young democracy. Rooms and hallways, witnesses of a time passed. Longings frozen in mental images, portrayed by the beauty of its vague memories, like the shadow of a smile. Going back to my roots, these remote feelings briefly surface. I am lucky to recharge my soul, but also suffer the sad disappointment of confronting something lost, abandoned, forgotten.