I wonder what Uruguay smells like and go to Las Delicias, to ’Los Piratas’.

I close my eyes.

Dawn, my uncle Meme is watering the newly mown grass, it smells of green, of morning.

It’s summer, the wind brings a storm and we go outside to get wet in the water pouring off the roof, the hot pavement cools down, it smells of rain, of the south-easterly wind.

My sister and I resolve that all animals are our friends, hummingbirds, beetles, crickets and frogs, we are Indians and jump through the trees of the gully, the white foam of the silver bay, our skin smells of seaweed, of Atlantic saltpetre, of the sun’s glare.

I come home and my mum picks me up, she smells of earth, her skin calms me.

The sun sets between white walls, purple tiles, my grandmother sings, Eugenia de Montijo, Tránsito Olasa, she tells me about the beginning of her saga. Lala’s grey eyes turn pink and she smiles, a spoiled girl, she smells clean, a pure soul.

It’s night, in the background the forest, pine trees, lambertianas. Virgilio’s flowers, and the well where Grandpa planted a jasmine, she now guides us in dreams, she smells of cosmos, of galaxies.

They say that one’s native land is that, a memory of childhood.

To me Uruguay smells of home, of my house, ’Los Piratas’.

Martín Sastre