There was not a clock to wake up, or even a simple rooster that announced, as a harbinger, that a spark of red or even orange is spreading across the sky on the horizon of that place. Zeca had left us.
I met her passing through the chapel - resting on account of her swollen legs; with a bag of something to prick, which she said made very good tea for the knees. He took his bag, looked into the chapel, and said: “Do you know why the deceased is never buried on his back, my thread? When we see someone face down, we see ourselves and see ourselves in the center of the spine ... And that is why Miltinho, that when people are buried they are not placed face down ”.
I started to connect the dots. At night, a rooster crowed.