House of Gaze, December 2022.

The manner in which the mind journeys through time is indeed unique. Some look to dreams, while others seek solace in memories (these serve as passages through which the transit that science deems improbable for now becomes possible). In reality, dreams and memories are but the subsequent effects, or, if you prefer, the meeting points of consciousness rather than mere gateways to the unconscious. This was Homero's firm conviction.

Something always triggered these occurrences, whether they were labeled as déjà vu, premonitions, clairvoyance, or recollections. In other words, to reach a dream or memory, it seemed necessary to cross some form of threshold or passageway. This was how the writer comprehended it, and thus, he found it logical to experience things like this:

Homero had been harvesting the last golden cherries from his garden. As he prepared to have breakfast and plucked them from their dry casings, resembling tiny Chinese lanterns or perhaps lungs, if you prefer that imagery, he knew that these were juicy fruits, rich in vitamin C. Paralleling the principles of homeopathic medicine: similia similibus curantur, he assumed, not entirely erroneously, that the properties of these berries specifically fortified the bronchial system.

While picking, he pondered the resemblance between the horticulturist's transitions among ripe fruits and the invasion of dreams and memories in the mind. The bright orange hue of the sweet and tiny golden cherries brought to mind a memory, one that he could undoubtedly attribute to a confession made by his mother a few months before her passing, thirteen years ago.

* * *

House of Gaze, September to December 2008.

In September 2008, Tere's aortic aneurysm had grown to a size that led the doctors to consider hospitalization, possibly surgical intervention to trim the affected artery section and replace it with a prosthesis. They explained that the primary issue lay in Terina's advanced age and the delicate collateral effects of the aneurysm, which were themselves the slow and gradual consequences of that dreadful pheochromocytoma twenty-two years ago, an ailment that led the medical community to label her as a fortunate survivor, to the extent that her case found a place in medical records. Another resulting effect, renal insufficiency, presented a complicated obstacle, significantly increasing the risk of the affectionate "Burrita," as her mother, Grandma Luisa, lovingly called her, losing her life on the operating table – an outcome she firmly dismissed, tired of numerous surgeries.

"If there's a need to put me under the knife again, son," Tere would have told Homero, "promise me you won't allow it. I don't want it anymore."

Upon receiving the doctor's instructions, the mother and son shared a knowing look, feeling like they were tied under the sword of Damocles. She requested some time to sort out her affairs and signed the corresponding responsibility letter before her hospitalization.

In the following days, within a short week, Homero did everything possible to expedite, facilitate, and ensure that she could settle her affairs. He also helped her draft her will according to the terms agreed upon by her and Toño, Homero's father. Homero took this opportunity to draft his own will and provide some certainty to the future, even though he had nothing to leave behind beyond his stories, collections of books, stamps, coins, and records, with no one to pass them to except his sisters and nieces. The idea was for both Tere and Toño to dictate their wills together to avoid future issues. However, Toño, burdened by a persistent back pain, refused to appear before the notary.

The ailment that left Homero's father in a wheelchair was the result of an old injury that was never properly addressed. This injury was only discovered when Toño, after stumbling and getting his leg stuck in a broken concrete drain on the street, visited the family orthopedist to seek help and complain about walking difficulties.

* * *

Sonnenblumendorf, 2005.

The orthopedic specialist walked into the examination room with Toño's X-ray in hand, placed it on the lightbox, and took a seat at his desk.

"Don Antonio, I need to ask you a few questions. Have you ever been in a serious accident?"

"To tell you the truth, Doctor, I've lost count of how many accidents I've had," Toño said with a smile, squinting as he tried to remember. "I'm always tripping over something," he added with his characteristic good humor, which not even physical discomfort could dampen at his seventy-five years.

"I mean a serious accident where you could have been seriously injured."

"Well, maybe a car accident that my wife Tere had, decades ago, and I was in the back seat."

"Ah! Mrs. Tere told me the same thing when I examined her a week ago when we discovered the real cause of her headaches."

"Oh, weren't they migraines? We always thought they were migraines, but none of the doctors who saw her could cure them. Poor Tere, it was easier to count the days her head didn't hurt. She learned to live with the pain. She only took painkillers when it was unbearable. So, what does she have then?"

"A progressive injury, a fourth cervical vertebra misalignment, initially unnoticed, now becomes evident, particularly due to Mrs. Tere's advanced osteoporosis. This presents a risk of paraplegia, which signifies full paralysis from the neck downward."

"That's terrible!"

"I've already prescribed the medications and therapy she needs to slow down the progression. There's still time for her. As for your case, aside from having your left leg slightly shorter than most people, let me explain the ailment affecting you and putting you at risk of becoming paralyzed. Before we continue, I'd like to hear your account of the accident to determine the most suitable treatment for your situation."

"Oh, goodness! Well, Doctor...," Toño made a brief pause and began to recount the events.

* * *

Mexico City, 1967.

"Tere had turned thirty-five," Toño said and went on to explain that Homero was born four years earlier. The time was approaching for the little one to attend kindergarten for the first time, and Tere needed greater mobility to drop off and pick up their daughters, Patricia, aged fifteen; Sandra, aged ten; and Homero himself from school. Additionally, she needed to manage her time for the beauty salon, a business venture she had recently embarked upon with her neighbor and friend, Marta López Cuenca, the wife of La Nena's Lebanese landlord, Toño's younger sister. With these thoughts, Toño gave Tere a gray 1957 Mercedes Benz. For the couple, it became a symbol of the blessings they had received throughout seventeen years of marriage, despite the tragic and sorrowful death of their daughter, Sandra Primera, known as Picolina, at the tender age of ten months, twelve years earlier.

A few days after receiving the gift, Tere learned to drive at the Asociación Mexicana de Automovilistas or A.M.A., a driving school. Toño, who learned to drive young through a friend's guidance, could sometimes be imposing and controlling, diminishing Tere's abilities, particularly when she first started driving.

Being an advertiser, Toño occasionally had access to special offers and promotions from his clients before they became public. This gave him certain privileges when acquiring goods and services. This is how he found out that there would be pre-season prices at the renowned Palacio de Hierro, an old department store, before Christmas. Therefore, Tere, Toño, and La Nena decided to go there for early holiday shopping.

"After our shopping trip," Toño narrated to the orthopedic specialist, "we were about to cross an intersection when a material transport truck alerted its presence with its deafening horn. Tere was at the wheel, my sister in the front passenger seat, and I was in the back seat. Seat belts weren't a thing in cars back then, only on planes. My sister, alerted and fearful, shouted at Tere to accelerate, sensing boldly that we had just moments before the traffic light would change from green to red in our direction. I, instead, firmly told her to brake. Tere, hesitant due to her limited driving experience, accelerated briefly, then applied the brakes. The truck hit us head-on. 'What a brute!' La Nena exclaimed, shielding herself with her right arm and leaning toward Tere instinctively. I did the same, leaning back in the rear seat to protect my head. The behemoth slammed into the trunk, and we spun like a top onto the cross street. The trunk flew open, and gifts and shoes scattered everywhere. Fortunately, it didn't escalate further. Tere and La Nena had some bruises on their arms and faces, while I had to stay in bed for a few days with a large hematoma on my tailbone and buttocks because I rebounded against the hard rear door's armrest, deforming it."

Thirty-eight years later, the family orthopedist would explain to Toño the medical details of his and Tere's conditions, emphasizing the importance of physiotherapy, as the long-term side effects of "the master's command" were not as minor as Toño had described, but rather had brought about delicate consequences. Tere diligently followed the treatment and was able to walk until her passing. In contrast, Toño, determined, uncomfortable with the measures he needed to take for his case, and always rebellious, chose not to seek treatment. He spent his final days confined to his apartment and had to be moved with the assistance of a wheelchair.

* * *

Sonnenblumendorf, 2008.

This had been the reason why Toño refused to go to the notary, to carry out the plan that aimed to provide certainty and peace of mind to Tere, and ultimately to the whole family. He chose not to leave the apartment where he had been living for twenty-two years with his mistress (nothing to do with the previous lover, Elvira) which caused a strong confrontation between Homero and his father.

However, the plan was carried out only partially and not exactly as intended. It was necessary to prepare a notarial document clarifying Tere's identity in relation to her different names in various official documents, a matter that was more or less common in many people of her generation. They were known by different names in their social circles, with different forms of signing, full or abbreviated signatures. Hence, it was necessary to standardize her identity because, as a result of changes in the law at that time, Homero and his sisters, having different surnames, were seen by the official authorities as unrelated to their parents except for insufficient family stories for any judge to accept. They signed, bearing witness, the parents of two dear old friends of Homero: Mr. Veny Rojo (short for Venancio) suffering from the tremors of Parkinson's disease, and also someone who was like a second father to the writer, Mr. Bartolomé "Papá Sauto," who would die shortly after having an accident while rolling down the stairs in his son Jesus's house, then settled in Houston. The incident occurred on October 2, 2008, apart from the 1968 Tlatelolco massacre, it gave Homero and his friend, almost like a brother, another reason not to forget that date. For Toño's and his siblings' wills, the same had to be done later, except for his two half-siblings, one of whom embraced a certain belief by which he mysteriously disappeared from the knowledge of the rest of the world.

With the matter resolved, Tere was admitted to the public hospital as agreed with the doctors. There, signs of bad luck were not long in coming. In the bed opposite Tere's, a patient who had had one leg amputated received the last rites and died a day later. Above Tere's bed, contrary to what was customary in the public hospital, there was a crucifix, and the dim light, far from reassuring, resembled the gloomy atmosphere of a wake. In this atmosphere, Homero left his mother on a Monday, and on Wednesday morning, he received a strange call from the doctor in charge of his mother, a truly rare occurrence. Homero's heart leaped, and fear overwhelmed him.

"Mr. Núñez?" came the voice on the other end of the house phone. "I'm calling you regarding your mother."

What had happened? In an instant, hundreds of scandalous, terrible, and distressing images passed through Homero's mind. He tried to remain composed. The calm and gentle voice on the other end simply informed him that she had decided to check herself out. Homero's soul returned to his body, but his hands and legs trembled. He thanked the call and got ready to go to the hospital.

* * *

La Raza Medical Center, Mexico City, 2008.

As soon as he arrived on the angiology floor where Tere had been registered, she was sitting there, waiting for him, like a well-behaved child in the hallway chairs that served as a waiting area. She held a bag with her belongings on her lap and was dressed in her regular clothes instead of the thin and dreadful hospital gown in which he had left her days before. As Homero approached, tears welled up in the woman's eyes.

"Oh! When you came out of the elevator and walked over here, it was like seeing my mother, your grandmother María Luisa when she came to pick me up from the Puebla boarding school of Los Hijos del Ejército," Tere said, visibly moved by the scene. The two of them hugged tightly. Homero felt more like a father to his mother than the son of a four-year-old, recalling one of the most decisive moments in his personal biography, but that's a matter for another chapter.

On the way back to their Casa de la Mirada in Sonnenblumendorf, silence was the third passenger in the car driven by Homero.

* * *

Casa de la Mirada, days later.

Weeks passed, and the days were filled with uncomfortable silences. The air only carried their individual thoughts. Their gazes barely met. The December festivities were approaching, and after dinner one evening, Homero and his mother were watching the usual prime-time soap opera. During one of the commercial breaks, Homero initiated a conversation, and those three minutes of pause were enough to significantly alter the writer's life.

"I don't know if it's part of what they call a midlife crisis, Mom, but lately, I've been wondering if I made the right choice in pursuing a career in Communication Sciences. I mean, I love my field and everything I've accomplished in it, but..."

"Son, do you remember a few months ago when we ran into one of your former students, and when she introduced me to you, she praised you extensively? That time, I told you how proud I was of you, and I repeat it now. But I think it's time for me to confess something."