Anavid, my middle name

She is beautiful. Her name is Ana Cristina, but she prefers to be called Cristina. She has always been a true artist, in every way. She has created great artworks, being the greatests of them those who breathe: her children. Since I was little I began to childishly wish I had been her mother, or her sister, to protect her even more of what I already could, being her daughter. I still do. I have seen her life through her words, her drawings, her painting, the music she used to hear, her old pictures, her memories that became like bedstories to me. That consequently led to me learning whole lots of stuff from her, even tacitly. I love you and thank you for absolutely everything, mom.

He was a troubled man, but an artist as well. I think that art was for him a relief, a way of expressing his complexity, maybe the only escape that didn't harm him, unlike narcotics abuse. His name is David Abel. I can't say much about him because he left us when I was too young to create my own memories. He represented a gap for me for many years, until I knew from my mother that he passed away, in such a lonely way it made me genuinely cry, even though I had not felt a true bond with him before his death. What hurt me the most was the irreversible vanishing of the possibility to fix that absence somehow. Nevertheless, since my dad died, I must avow that I have inexplicably felt his presence beside me, sometimes comforting me when I think I can't go on.