Delicate dedication to Anne, my first reader.
A small family legend. We still speak to us the night of verbena and cupcakes.
My great grandmother lived a English hell. His two son, enlisted in the Civil War, had the preposterous idea of fighting on opposing sides. One among the Nationalists, the other among the Republicans. Tragic fate fratricide, not so rare in these times of chaos.
The poor woman had no news of her children for months. His torment was unbearable. Were they injured or prisoners? They still fighting? Were they alive?
She cried all the tears from his heart and prayed to God. Sometimes, in moments of great despair, he sometimes even the cause.
One day she hung her laundry in the sun to dry, making grief and rage, she appealed directly to the Lord. His index finger pointing at the sky.
- My god! I do not know what happened to my son! I have more news! Are they at least alive? If you do not have me yet Lord, sending me a sign!
A flock of swallows was then the root ball above the tidal clotheslines, chirping everywhere. Amidst the swirling flight, a swallow albino immaculate.
Months later, the war finally ended, the two warring brothers returned safely to the village. That is interpreted since, like a little miracle of family.
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