This clumsy and stilted portrait of a thumb was inspired by this more graceful one by Sergio Aquindo. Which in turn was triggered by an anonymous one he saw in a Parisian shop window. Just as Sergio suspects about his own, I feel that this fat finger of mine does not say all that it should. What's worse, it may end up revealing some other things that I have always tried to conceal.
He would wake up with the rooster crowing. Would gather some twigs and light the fire. The dogs would stretch out and approach the fire pit. He would put the kettle on and remain absorbed watching the crackling of the flames. Sitting on the little chair on the porch, he would drink mate and smoke, gazing how life began to slowly become brighter in that familiar landscape. After he fed the animals, he would walk -sometimes whistling- to the estate where he had worked most of his life.
One Christmas Eve, in addition to the usual sweet bread and cider, his employer gave him a beautiful watch brought from the city just for him. He told him that he had earned it for his loyalty and commitment to work.
From that day on, he no longer has time for anything. He no longer whistles and now knows that he is always late. Sometimes, when he returns to his home late at night, not even his dogs recognize him.