When we are asked we avivemos our memory it often coincides with the fact that we started to lose it. Said Maria Zambrano in his colloquium about memory that the memory ‘says as being in many ways. The memory is so subtle, so open to interpretations and errors that, in some moments, it is too easy to cross the thin line that separates the reality of good and bad memories. Yes, but that three April 1979 is indelible. Came from the silence and find ourselves with the power of decision in the hands, with the fraught freedom of hope, creators of joy exist without that nobody willed us the adventure of working future. The dead always come back, and you memory is porfiada, I warned Candido Mendez, parent, then the jienense Town Hall Councillor.

Even with Franco dead concluded that voice coming out of jail and suffering this generation dragging a heavy ballast. He was right. That day, some fell silent and you can that even be sonrojaran; others did discursive Carambola to, finally, stay home. Some not learned nor repented, but more participate in the common celebration. Thirty years are not, but are there. The past remembered him inside Thursday at the Cervantes Theatre, in a beautiful ceremony which commemorated the mayors and Councillors of the transition. They also came from the silence of the Spain’s heels in an attitude of firm, irrevocable death sentences and many with traces of spurs in the soul. And I remembered with trenca clothing the cold of that day in Jaen April, together with friends with buddies to Harbor weather knowing we already owners of expropriated history.

And we quickly learned to live to the clearing, neighbors of cold moons, now without a national syndicalist God, away from the official silence and darkness.Creators of this April, we have all been as others were earlier that fourteen, and never want to doubt the courage of its meaning, nor of his claw and effrontery to transform our lives. Relief so I thought, my rest, along with those mayors and Councillors that on the night of last Thursday, at the Teatro Cervantes, also dreamed of that April’s friends and dear people who compete in the memory. That day, as last night at the Cervantes, April gave me pleasures in calm, caresses that grant details and emotions of that beautiful picture vote first councils in democracy. Every day is April, I thought. And I smiled as the peasant who between sighs filled his heart, while picking the fruits of its harvest.