This whole drawing-on-my-forehead thing was getting pretty tiring. Besides, I really didn’t know who I was supposed to show it to anyway. But I kept drawing every day. And then I would have lunch, which always involved bread and tomatoes and sometimes chicken:
Thinking of it, drawing letters on my forehead reminded me of a day almost thirty years ago. It was in my grandma’s house, I must have been seven years old, when my mom sat down in front of me and began tracing letters with her finger on my forehead. It took me a while to figure them out, because they I could only feel them and not see them, and also because they were mirror-inverted. But once I had put them together and spelled them out my mom smiled: R-U-B-E-N.
This was to be my litte brother’s name.