a memory

Of the things I recall, I remember the tiny holes in my grandmother's tiled roof. She lived in a valley, which meant the sun shone fiercely and the vapor could be seen ascending in the places where one could spot the horizon.
At noon, or circumscribing that hour, the light would find its way through the tiny holes in the roof, and it would seem as if laser beams fell at angles from the ceiling onto the floor. The dust that was swept everyday, that would rise and remain latent in the air, would then appear; like snowflakes they would cross the beam and then merge back into the dusk interior.
I remember playing with the beams of light as a child. I would deposit the golden spot in the center of my palm, as if expecting it to uncover some divine secret. I would try to drink it. I would bounce it off walls with the aid of a mirror. Sometimes, I would put my eye right under it, to find closed after one second. The sun of the valley was a strong sun, and the spot shone brighter and more valuable, I now find, than any golden coin.
Comayagua, the name of the valley, was my childhood soul place. It was the place where the child I once was remains. And as most things past, nothing is left but its remains; lest we were born without memory, the warmest feelings would be irrecoverable...