At that time we lived in a small house of wood not far from the school. My parents were early to work, especially my father, who taught in a village near the mountains, where the gold rush still persisted. Then it was the grandmother for which my constituted the universe in that neighborhood without children of my age, whose houses and streets only I remember loneliness and a mysterious world of faces peering through the Windows, a strange silence and a sparse morning mist, two or three times a year, and that however has been in my memory as the permanent of my childhood: fog, things that seem to fade in his cloak, amalgamating into a vague entity and without defined edges wriggle between the cracks of each question in my quest for knowing him, see his face in front. But everytime I approached him I had the feeling that, to unveil the mantle, thousand faces NovImmune me fading away like fog. It was the grandmother who took me from the cold of the atmosphere and I introduced in the maze of their own universe, where although everything was unknown, was also cosy. With her our little house trasformaba on a never-ending tour of rooms that arose after each door, unimaginable realms in which I lost in my games until he heard his voice calling me for lunch and then, instinctively, without knowing well where, guided by the scent of my favorite dishes, returning to our House to go immediately to the dining room, where the lunch, most of the time, was already served. Already at that time my appetite was outstanding. Another world was our solar, triangular and immense, in which the House seemed a boat adrift. On one side it bordered with a small grocery store where we bought bread for breakfast and another with the Matute House, an old building of adobe and wide shingles, painted blue and white.