It had always moved, and I had never noticed. It moved in slow waves, as if it were breathing slowly, like old people do. 'Labored breathing filled the air of the small room, it sounded shallow, as if many holes had been punctured into the lung'. There was no sound, there had never benn, and I assumed there would never be. Just the movement. Like a ship, rocking on the tranquile waves of the Carabian sea, suspecting absolutely nothing while the sailors sleep and dream of home, or of tropical islands full of beautiful women.
Like a mother that dances slowly with her son in her arms so he sleeps, singing a sleeping song to him in her sweet voice, beautiful. Like the soft and slow cumbia song in that restaurant in the middle of the desert, almost abandoned, almost solitary, so full of life.
I was sweeping the house as my mother had asked me when I noticed. The curtain had ceased its movement, and it was then that I noticed that it had always moved. I never knew how, but I knew in that moment that my fathers' life had ended, that his heart no longer beat.