is one of those moments when you know that words do not need. Cross the threshold of the door and enter the house. There are people. Her grief-stricken, he stands, giving away the stove, with open hands, palm facing the flames, perhaps in search of warmth that he knows he has lost.
The greetings and hugged her, Gripping, to make them feel all your closeness, your love, all you can give her. But you know there will be no arms in which she could surrender. In
few speak, and if they do, do it softly, almost not wanting to disturb. Sometimes it is stronger than the noise of leaf roll tissues which, in turn, are thrown into the stove. Quick hands open the door, throw the cartridge and close, being careful not to burn. The flame in there, shake the walls between white and resumed power for a few moments before returning to normal movements. That stove
charms everyone, and that silence surreal, draws all to himself. In turn, in many get up in front carrying and spreading his arms to warm the palms of your hands before returning to the spot and let others repeat this ritual.
More people arrive and greet each and every time, every word of encouragement, to embrace each received, she renews the pain and come out fresh tears from her eyes tired.
The flame in the stove, now she is tired, but now we are ready to hand feed it with a piece of wood, after halting a moment, he launches into new dances, infusing new warmth in that room.
Inexorable, it's time that no one would have wanted. All left their homes, some in silence, some crying, seeking comfort in the eyes of others.
front of him there.
Before you go someone back into the house, take a look at the stove, opens the door and throws another timber. Yes, because you, when you fall, will have to find the house warm.
then goes out and closes the door behind him.
That heat must not be lost.
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