IV. MY NAME, MY GRANDMOTHER AND I

"… I will pronounce your name when I am away…"

(From tango "Mañana zarpa un barco", to De Mare and Manzi)

-Talk Victoria -

"Looking for a good bit of the singers Moran?" - Is the question that always prevails. The answer is usually prompt and brief - "No, it's the name of my grandmother." However, with a few lines of time I can tell you where they come from the Victoria and Moran.

At the beginning of the year 96 I applied to compete in a contest for the singers that I demanded a stage name or pseudonym. On behalf of my beloved grandmother Victoria called apropiarme track but also did not want his surname, Hernandez. This is how my mother recall that beautiful film "Las cosas del querer", which both had enjoyed together - with greater fervour my grandmother, daughter-Andalusians and one of his players. Angela Molina, playing Pepa Moran, charming character that shocked us forever, and there comes the idea that, rather than a surname, is a kind of middle name.

My grandmother and I Between us there was and there will always be a communion mysterious, as lightened in another time, the daughter I do not know what it lacks and caressing at one end and one almanac marked our lives somehow. I loved her and I, I do not remember if we ever said.

It was almost as a grandmother but not all appeared to be none. My grandmother told me stories not to fall asleep, there were no books at home, only old magazines where birome in hand, the girl who was entretenía are finding the seven differences. He had a prodigious memory for dates and orchestras and anecdotes of carnivals and marriages were his favorite stories, the stories of my childhood. I slept intoning a Spanish copla that his mother sang while washing, I had counted once. My small daughter Lucia also sleep well.

My grandmother does not recite poetry or knew who was Wagner or Cervantes, or the names of the constellations and the scientific explanation of the rainbow, even his legend. Barely had completed the third grade and the only person from that illustrious ever told me was Evita. Not saying much, it simply eyes filled with tears and she said that "it was beautiful and it was so good."

There was a rocking chair or collected stamps or butterflies. Not intended legarnos nor the story of a surname or a race, even a recipe for making masterful spirits. We bought, yes, stomach: vegetable ravioli, buñuelitos, potato cake, fried pies, potatoes and fried eggs… Scents of the house of my grandparents are as engrossed in my memory.

My grandmother was a wonderful, beautiful in all its human size, fat sweets and candies to deshoras any tenderness, warm, soft hair, rough hands and an innocence that no longer plentiful. It was seductive soul and arranged with little, as those who have always lived with the fair: a lipstick, a pair of necklaces and rings, a dress and a pair of shoes to quit, and a colony for several ruleros and bigudíes consist hair entrecano.

However, neither the sum of their strengths or describing their simple chores and pensares ultimately define. Whenever I sing the waltz that I wrote for her think aloud and say to the public: "That was my grandmother."

Copy then those verses that are an expression of my soul with his absence yy from the loving mark his heat in my life.

Grandmother mine…

As in a dream from afar I reach your voice

Sweet and sonorous following a slow rhythm:

What need is my hair your hands ajadas sleep,

What celestial whim of the sky was your little eyes color of wheat,

How much of your life is in my life,

How much of your absence from my pain.

Time without owner who never ceases to achieve,

Infamous fate of those who are encouraged to dream…

Napping in the afternoon your small step has been to wake up

And your hands like a pair of wings at night go out to give me shelter,

Fantasies that shelters my hope,

Dreams that fatigue… illusion!

Oh, my Grandmother,

Where were you the day you said goodbye.

How needed your chest at that moment,

Your constant tenderness, your hopeless love,

How needed to believe that was a lie,

Granny, you go without telling goodbye.

Where you now asked my sadness,

And my song you pray in shadow with her voice.

Granny, who surrendered your life with a kiss,

Ing the light that my eyes had given him God.

Victoria