Another Monday crossed off the calendar.

Another Monday crossed off the calendar. Another trip back up that hill where I feel your absence most, unable to hear you, without you there.

I think I can handle it, that it's just a matter of being strong and pushing straight ahead. But the heart doesn't lie, and as soon as I let my guard down, it brings me back to reality. A song, a photo, a smell...

The bundles of phone minutes have become almost useless now that I can't carry on with those trivial chats. Chats that were an excuse to hear your voice and know you were well. Always worried, even when there was no need. Always asking "And Emma? Where is she? At the pool? Be careful! Don't take your eyes off her! English class? Music? Prubina, she works so hard! Look after Isabel, she loves you so much and she's so good, how lucky you were... Do you remember when she used to come round for coffee and I was there? Don't argue, eh? You must always get on, you've got a little girl!". Always happy because I had lots of work or had to go down to the capital. Because that was good, that meant I was worth something and people counted on me.

Sometimes I find myself lost in memories: a game of burro, an afternoon snack at odd hours, a film by moonlight or one of Marisol's.

I'll no longer be able to turn up without warning you, so you wouldn't go to any trouble or worry. I'll no longer hear you greet us from the landing window. I'll no longer be able to hug you over the light well, where even my fear of heights went away, just because you were holding on to me and telling me off, precisely for not warning you so you could have something ready.

I'll no longer be able to complain while you slip money to your great-granddaughter, as if I didn't notice. We always knew we were rich, because time together was what we valued most. Weekends, summers, New Year's Eves... What mattered was being together, even if it was in someone else's house.

I remember your laugh when I was the one telling you off for being cold for no reason, for eating less than you should, for living on coffee and bread. Because it didn't matter what I said, I knew you'd do exactly as you pleased, because when it came to stubbornness, the best I could manage was a draw.

And you'd smother us in kisses, and take my hand, fondly recalling the same old stories. Stories of starry little sheep and bed-warming bricks, of melted squares of chocolate and films in the caravan, with no timetables or rules, where anything went. Because nobody else was in charge there, not my mother, not my aunt.

Going down the stairs knowing you were waiting for me to open the street door so you could say goodbye again over the intercom, imitating the great Lina with her "thank you for coming".

Those moments recharged my batteries for a good long while. How annoying not to have gone every week, how annoying not to have had you just round the corner.

And here I am, out of battery and missing you (arthritis of the soul). Writing these words and hearing you in the background saying "prubín", because you always put others before yourself. Because I know you still would, if it were up to you.

But I promise you'll still be here with us, that we'll always remember you.

I love you and I won't forget you, Olvido; pinky promise.