The Juggler from Childhood

In one of those forgotten courtyards that vanish the moment you turn away, there was a girl who juggled colored balls. Not for an audience. Not for records. Simply because the balls were there. Colorful — like days no longer known by name, only by their light. She juggled time like air. Memory. Joy. The silence after laughter.

Each movement — a retelling of an old fairytale, whispered to oneself. Each ball — a fragment of the past: the smell of lunch at four o’clock, curtain shadows, dust dancing in a sunbeam.

Back then, “home” was a simple word. A place where your name was known. Where the spoon fit your hand. But with time — borders blurred. Addresses became temporary. The word “home” began to resemble the direction of the wind more than a dot on a map. Home is no longer a place. It’s a rhythm you learn to juggle again. Inside yourself.

Home is not a roof, but a way of standing when everything else disappears

[said someone like Cortázar, if he spoke in air instead of words]

Now the girl is part of a myth. Perhaps it’s no longer her. Perhaps it’s us.Anyone trying to hold on to something: meaning, tenderness, or simply balance. The world keeps spinning.The balls — still the same.

Only now, if you drop one — no one says you’re too old to play.