We were a dozen teenagers determined to fulfill an ancient tradition. We pulled a cart carrying a heavy load of pine branches, to be burnt at midnight to honor the patron saint of our village. However, the steep slope leading to the Roman bridge seemed an impregnable obstacle. This could be our moment of glory or a lifelong shame. With clenched teeth and closed eyes, we made a desperate effort to keep hold of the cart as it pulled downhill. The crowd exploded into a cheering frenzy. We crossed the bridge which separated our vanishing adolescence from our incipient adulthood.
Miguel Ángel Calvo worked for an insurance company for nearly three decades. He is a retiree who dedicates part of his time to enjoying writing.