No soc aquí

There are borders that seem to only have to be opened with a spell. They are not exactly barriers, nor straight lines, nor do they make a clean cut. Nor are they imaginary borders or gates that cross the passage to a parallel world, but very real places, situations and circumstances; hinges between worlds that disappear and others that struggle to get their heads out. We may have them here next door, but seeing them, understanding their mechanisms, and finally crossing them can take a lifetime. Mila, the narrator of this novel, was born in the late seventies in a secluded and poorly urbanized neighborhood, sandwiched between a highway, a cemetery and an industrial estate. Daughter of farmers who had to change the tractor for the assembly line, in her most remote family lexicon stand out the words portland of the cement with which they covered the era of home and kennebec of the potatoes they planted in the garden . Her parents did not take her on vacation or to dinner outside, but they took her to see a healer who one day told her that she had a gift that would manifest over time.