I’m not entirely sure where to start. They told me to speak, to tell my story, so here I am, letting the words come as they will. I’m 89 years old, and strangely enough, I remember things from sixty years ago far better than what I ate last night. I suppose that’s how age works.
At this point in life, memory matters more than plans. Memory becomes a place to rest.
Growing up with cold and hunger
I was born in 1936, in a small town in Jaén—one of those places that barely exists anymore. My father worked as a day laborer. My mother washed clothes for others. There were five of us children; I was the middle one.
I don’t remember toys or gifts. What I remember is cold and hunger. They were constant companions.
I was very young during the war, but I lived the postwar years fully. I left school around nine or ten, attending only when I wasn’t needed in the fields. I learned to read a little, write poorly, and do basic math. That was all.
Losing my father and being sent away
When I was eleven, my father left. He said he was going to find work in another city. He never returned.
My mother held on as long as she could, but with so many mouths to feed, it wasn’t enough. One day she sent me to live with an aunt in another town, hoping I’d have a better chance there. When I arrived, I learned she had died months earlier.
I was fourteen—alone, broke, and without a home.
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