All we can do is dream, or die,/dream that we do not die/and, at times, for a moment, wake. - Rosario Castellanos

The wind fled into the heights, shrieking mournfully. A washed-out, cold sun shot its arrows down upon that barren hill.

The march, as you know, was not only to express their dissatisfaction but also to begin a strike against household chores-those jobs so sui generis, so unique that they are only noticed when left undone

You may not be interested in hearing it, but I want to talk about it. To talk about them, rather: the forty-five years (exactly the number I have lived) as of today. I don't want to hide anything or misrepresent the date, like one covers up a gray hair or a wrinkle. No, each day has been worth what it has cost, and much more.