Mané and Quincas, the two sexagenarian homeless guys living with us slept on the floor, on soft mattresses, made by my mother with an especial kind of grass, harvested from a neighbors’ swamp, where it grew wild. The freshly made beds smelt great. It provided perfect sleep alright.Daybreak brought life back into business. I woke with a weird noise, as if a cat was being strangled. Quincas was having an attack and my father, holding his hands, whispered a shaky Ave Maria prayer.
Quincas died and was buried before God called it a day. A sad day!
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