I remember closing my eyes while devouring the strawberry pie my mother had just prepared, not willing to show her how much I disliked it. Closing my eyes seemed to engage me to nothing.

I remember sitting under my desk, crying while cowering as my mother told me calmly with a restrained voice that my grandfather contracted Alzheimer’s. My tears were flowing on my knees but I didn’t care. I feared that he would not be able to remember me.

I remember the sound of the beating machine the night my grandfather died. It seemed infinite. At some point, the firefighters stopped it. They didn’t want me to hear the long bip, the one that took my grandfather away, the one referring to a heart that stopped to beat.

I remember the voice of my grandfather. Lyric, soft and yet old. His wrinkles were not enough. He lost his opera voice over the years but I was still delighted to listen to him sing Spanish and Cuban songs, the only ones he could remember under his medication, the ones that filled his younger years.

I remember every detail of my accident two years ago. I fell from my bike and a car drove on my right hand. It was quick. I barely had the time to do anything. I remember every emotion I felt, every though I had. I remember wondering when I would be able to go to my music theory lesson despite having blood all over my hands, despite having purple hands.