I lose at least onefrom the pair per seasonand hold on to the other, that singleglove left behind still contains the lost one.That is to sayon the winter break I read Pascal Quignard,in each image there’s a missing image,says he, I addin each sound there’s a missing sound,say: my motherhow she, because of her hearing impairment,is permanently reconstructingsentences from fragments, isn’t thatwriting? I amwalking the nine blocks back homefrom the subway, it is -18 degreesand I’ll never knowhow to turn that into Fahrenheit or howat times I focus on something so much as to becomesomething else. Glovesprevent us from breaking apart,gloves are not relevant in Buenos Airesthis cold does not existthe kind that makes you turn not only your headbut your whole body just to look atwhat’s coming. I did not write muchback there, just broughta couple of summer images: my mother and Iat night standing in front a white wallkilling mosquitoes; my mother,my sons, I, in the backyard,hurrying to take away the clothes from the clothes lineunder light rain.