Un peine de nácar verde

Los viejos huelen mal, pensó una vez al sentir el olor acre de su abuela que le abrazaba para robarle un beso. Un hedor a humedad, a vino rancio, a restos de lejía, a ausencia de higiene dental. Y no sabe muy bien por qué le llega aquella frase a su memoria de camino al baño. Se siente torpe, repta con pasos cortos y rápidos —portantillo, pasotrotre, se dice con una mueca en sus labios recordando palabras caducas—; apenas puede doblar las piernas, le duelen los huesos —otra frase recogida de antaño que por fin entiende—, su piel cuarteada, casi un incunable, sus dedos de tenaza que han perdido el vigor. Y otro día más se mira al espejo, se atusa los pocos cabellos que le quedan con aquel peine de nácar verde que le regaló su mujer, y piensa si su olor provocará también el rechazo de sus nietos.

A green nacre comb

Old people stink, he once thought when feeling the acrid smell of his grandmother that embraced him to steal a kiss. Smell of damp, of old wine, of bleach remains, of lack of dental hygiene. And he doesn’t really know why that sentence brings back to his memory on the way to the bathroom. He feels clumsy, he creeps with short and quick steps – trot step, he says with a grimace in his lips remembering outdated words-; he can hardly bend his knees, his bones hurt –another sentence from the past that he finally understands-, his cracked skin, almost an incunable, his pincers fingers that lost vigour. And one more day he looks at himself in the mirror, he smoothes his few remaining hairs with that green nacre comb given by his wife, and thinks if his smell will provoke the rejection of his grandchildren.