I’m sure that life as a single mother isn’t easy, especially when you’re trying to raise your kids in a country that’s not yours, a country as strange as a stranger on the street. Since day one life for her was very hard, but she never gave up. She sacrificed seeing her kids’ first bike ride, or her kids’ first lost tooth, all these precious moments any mother would love to be part of just so she could continue working her three jobs to support her family. Her main priorities were that we always had a roof over our head, food on the table and clothes we can wear. She didn’t have that much time to spend with us, but the kiss she gave us every night before we went to bed was more than enough for us to know how much she loved us. I really don’t blame her or hold anything against her because she wasn’t with me throughout my childhood because I understand what was going on.
The state coffee puts one in when it is drunk on an empty stomach under these magisterial conditions produces a kind of animation that looks like anger: one's voice rises, one's gestures suggest unhealthy impatience: one wants everything to proceed with the speed of ideas; one becomes brusque, ill-tempered about nothing. One actually becomes that fickle character, The Poet, condemned by grocers and their like. One assumes that everyone is equally lucid. A man of spirit must therefore avoid going out in public. I discovered this singular state through a series of accidents that made me lose, without any effort, the ecstasy I had been feeling. Some friends, with whom I had gone out to the country, witnessed me arguing about everything, haranguing with monumental bad faith. The following day I recognized my wrongdoing and we searched the cause. My friends were wise men of the first rank, and we found the problem soon enough: coffee wanted its victim.