I was born in a small valley of rice fields on the southern coast of Peru, in the twilight of December 29, 1992.

I grew up surrounded by aromas of fresh earth, the morning dew and the faint sea breeze that somehow spread throughout the town, despite being 3 km away. I enjoyed watching the giant and lush fig trees create scary figures in the shadows of the night, listen to stories of elves and running at full speed among the cornfields of Hernán Carnero.

I loved savoring the freshly ripe plums and picking the falling oranges sometimes stamped with white strokes by some feathered artists. Climbing in secret the trees in the orchard because it was forbidden. Burying a keepsake box under the patio stairs in hopes of opening it when I “grew up”. Making the birth certificate of my female cat called White and her daughter Black in case they ever need their documents.

We prepared all kinds of dishes with the traditional stone mill that was under the fig tree using our clay pots and the onion sprouts we just looted from Hernán Carnero’s farm.

My sister Karla and I chased the multicolored dragonflies that flew everywhere and that for some reason let us catch them if we moved quickly through the bushes. We used to spent hours fishing in the ditch searching for shrimp and pejerreyes. Walking through mud up to my knees and feeling my feet sink into an indescribable softness. Made boats out of the cane leaves and watch them set sail without a crew. Watching the herons reflect in the water that flooded the rice fields at five in the afternoon when the sun drenched everything in pink and Mom came to look for us with a sweater.