We are our memories. We are made of small bits of happiness and sadness, experiences and dreams that we were making along the path.
lived in Reinosa, on the fifth floor in the middle of main street, which had grown on the banks of the old Camino Real that once Palencia Castilla to join the Cantabrian ports. A central gazebo, perfect for small nose poke between the windows and watch from on high, sheltered from the frost, the comings and goings of Marcero.
How little is needed for the party as a child, what a special night, almost like the Kings or the floats of San Mateo, who spent so nervous betting that crew, what round would stop on our website would be correct to a hospital and begin ringing the tour of our staircase ("March of flowers, you're welcome"). And more nervous when I listened to the music at the door of the neighbors of the first, second ... and you wondered if they would breath to reach the fifth. A fifth that many rounds was too distant, and that despite my parents, always generous with the traditions, were accustomed to a more than good tip for singers risky.
guess would come out with those old coats of red and black, his face stunned and hungry for music, with the innocent eyes of those who are just beginning to discover the world. And they would laugh with the occurrences of my father, always joking, which surprised some of the rounds with a basket of eggs and a sausage instead of the little money they were already modern times, the boys expected. And then laughing desfacía the mess.
would later sing with the group in March my school, the Antares. Always singing eighth, the final year, they were getting so good pesetas for the end of year trip. Early in season one but the music was from a very small and was part of small and not bad that the beloved musical group Don Ramón formed in the school, from the ten years I had to leave to give a little instrumental support to older singers. And even one or two years after leaving school continued the tradition. Uff, five or six years in March, with the uniform blue jersey, white shirt and red tie, with the guitar or lute, very very cold and most of the years enough or too much snow.
And that first year, so special, in which we sing and Estíbaliz March to Sergio, who had sung in the Vejo and those who waited in the lobby of the hotel, and we appreciated the gift with a frank and open smiles. And a pair of tickets. Yes, the same year that would go to Eurovision with "You come back."
We are what we remember. We are also that old tradition of March, which was losing the bellows of male phratry but regained a vigor that has not lost since. That old tradition that I shared with Leo, that never came to be part of us. But I still remember when the last night of February I look out the window, sniffing the cold, and in this silent sleep Santander hear how about a round the streets, seeking public portals and to start again with the question as ancient time, "Dan March?" lost in the fog of their own echoes.
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