She said, "I'd like to show you something." I followed her to the guest room, she pointed in the direction of the card table in the corner, on which the typewriter was wedged between two stacks of paper of about the same height, we walked over together, she touched everything on the table and then handed me the stack on the left, she said, "My life". "Excuse me?" I asked by shrugging my shoulders. She tapped the page, "My life", she said again. I riffled the pages, there must have been a thousand of them, I put the stack down, "What's this?" I asked by putting her palms on the tops of my hands and then turning my palms upward, flipping her hands off mine, "My life", she said, so proudly, "I just made it up to the present moment. Just now. I'm all caught up with myself. The last thing I wrote was 'I'm going to show him what I've written. I hope he loves it." I picked up the pages and wandered through them, trying to find the one on which she was born, her first love, when she last saw her parents, and I was looking for Anna, too. I searched and searched. I got a paper cut on my forefinger and bled a little flower onto the page on which I should have seen her kissing somebody, but this was all I saw.:
I wanted to cry but I didn't cry, I probably should have cried, I should have drowned us there in the room..."
"Extremely loud and incredibly closer".
La parte en la que la abuela, por la insistencia de su hijo, escribe su vida, en una máquina de escribir que jamás había usado, y que no tenía cinta.
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