My father had remarried when I was three, with who quickly became a perfect stepmother, treating me like her own child. I actually called her my mothe..., because she was always there in my oldest memories. When I was five, I had a half-sister. Early enough so that I would also consider her like a proper one.When were still young, our father's death was a painful event that marked us all and made us closer than ever before. Not that I hated my sister before that : I actually loved spending time. A place to hide. Now she noticed the movement of her joints when she walked or reached for something; the weight of her hand resting on her leg; even, sometimes, the way her hair attached to her scalp.And in this same way she was conscious of him: not as a thought, or an image, but as an undefined, inseparable part of her awareness of her physical self. He was there when she rubbed her nose; he was there in the heat of sunlight on her arm.And now, when a tiny figure began to separate itself. More

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