La Voz de Galicia – July 11, 2025 →
Maruxa has been moving in slow motion for a few days now. Slower than usual. It’s probably because of those new pills she was prescribed, and I’m not entirely sure they’re doing her the good they’re supposed to. The thing is, this week, to her usual octogenarian pace, we’ve added an extra layer of slowness. And although it took me a few days to adjust, I have to admit I ended up embracing it. Now we both move at the same rhythm: she because her body won’t allow for anything else, and I because, when I’m beside her, it makes no sense to live any faster than she does.
And so, I found myself thinking about what will happen when it’s me who, for whatever reason, has to live in slow motion. And I’m not talking about that slow-living life I’m so fascinated by (and wrote about in my last novel), but about the kind of life you’re forced to learn to live very slowly because there’s no other choice. That kind of life where taking a shower, bending down to put on your shoes, and stepping out for a short walk can take up an entire morning. That life where you realize no one is really listening to you anymore, not even the doctor who prescribed you those damned pills. That life where you feel no one expects anything from you anymore, except that you survive in the best possible conditions. That life where no one calls to ask how you’re doing, what you’re up to. And the more I think about it, that life, the life of the elderly, isn’t so different. Sure, I move faster than my mother, but every day I become more aware that no one really listens to anyone, no one expects anything from anyone, and we’re all walking through life staring at our own belly buttons…“Come on, Mom, we’re going to be late!” “Oh, Cris! Where are you rushing off to?”
