As a child I had a tree.

And the tree had a name and I stroked its trunk.

I hugged it while I watched the ants running up and down its bark.

And I was jealous of the ants for being parasitic on my tree.

Mother.

It is night. We do not know if the little girl sleeps. The blind is not completely lowered and some of the light from the streetlamps comes through the window. There is another light. The one that seeps through the crack under the door. You can hear the mother in the kitchen. A tap is turned on.

The girl calls.

The mother goes.

I'm cold, she says.

There are blankets in the closet.

The mother does not move.

The girl rests her face in the pillow.

Silence.

We, those from the outside, wonder why the mother, the same one that closed the door so that the light did not bother the girl, the same that goes when the daughter calls her, does not tuck her daughter in, does not traverse the space to the closet door and does not open it, does not bend over to pick up one of the blankets stacked against the background, does not unfold it and lay it on the cold body of the girl.