To be born and to die in the waters of time. The tree of my childhood threatened to collapse; it had to be propped up — like my grandmother, so beautiful until her last moments. When she died, I undressed and looked at her in all my nakedness. We are the same, I told myself: two women's bodies, one upright, one lying down, two fragilities full of strength. When I was little I loved to jump from the lake pontoon, again and again, to test the solidity of silence. Where we come from, in the North, there are skies everywhere to bathe in and waters to mirror oneself. I have travelled, seen deserts and abandoned valleys, fires, graves and asphyxiated forests. My body transformed; I was pregnant, and my breasts became the centre of the universe. Milk flowed over the past. I turned towards the sand and buried myself there for a few moments. No, I had not dreamed: in my imprint there was room for two.