So little time has passed since I saw my grandmother washing clothes in a pond, breaking the morning ice that had formed with a stick and dipping her wrinkled and hard work worn hands in that impossible water. Or my mother who, at three years old, had to hold the noose of the cow to avoid her running through the meadows of grass, sometimes soggy. It is in their childhood that I think whenever I see a girl on a pilgrimage. In the recent history we have traveled since the childhood of my grandmother and my mother till these little girls with sweet smile. So much had to be endured before a new Minho was formed for them.

“I got it! We will make a procession of wax ex-votos. We begin by aligning the cows and oxen; Galician and Turin breed. In no particular order. Then the sheep, the goats and the pigs. The dogs go on the side, protecting and guarding. They will be like officers of any given army, putting everything in order! ”
“And the cats?”
“The cats? Cats go on our laps, of course! But do you think they would accept another condition? ”
It was a silent dialogue, just looks. And the photographer came in and said nothing. Until today it is unknown who was thinking about that procession.