I never saw the machine in its temporary home at La Florida, but sometimes I imagine that the rhythm of my life is based on the rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat that would always accompany me years later, from my first days in the womb and until adulthood, ensuring my mama’s clearheadedness. My heart, your automobile, time—it all moves forward and ages at that rhythm. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat.
