Winter

     It is the time to burn the branches that have been pruned after harvesting the olives.

     I love the smell of burning branches. Olivareras' hands have been chapped and raw by the cold some time ago because we are in the coldest time of the year and the fingers have been scratching the earth for months to catch the fruits that have not fallen on the net in this part of the sierra where the vibrating machines cannot enter. Where the icy wind cuts your face and the frost lasts until noon.

     I'm glad I didn't have to go out for carrying water outdoors, as we did in Mr Graham's house and that almost always touched me, because fortunately now all the houses have tap water and hot water heaters.

     Dear Fran, I think it is the first time I have named that man by his name. It seems like me if I were putting a distance between that terrible day and now. Maybe my mind is advising me something. I dont know.

     I am also very glad that I did not have to skin any hare as I did then, since it is easy to go to the butcher shop and buy it ready to cook.

     What I still do it is light the fireplace — they say that the holm oak wood is the best — and for me it is a pleasant task: attend the moment in which a timid flame ends up hugging the appropriate trunk so that the fire is maintained until mealtime. Although in the afternoon you have to feed it again.

     Definitely I like the smell of this season.

     Y. a.

     Mary