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Dozens of times I crossed the lagoon, across its bridges, to visit grandfather on his farm outside the city, where we spent wonderful moments as a family.
It is projected in my mind, as if it were a movie, those moments in which, with his country wisdom, grandfather taught us the sowing cycles of the different plants that served as the basis of the food of those who lived there and of some from the surrounding area, with whom a barter trade was established.
The same was true of the excursions to the lagoon, in a rowing boat that gave us a gentle breeze or an inclement sun that we tried to combat with wide straw hats.
Fishing was never abundant, few fish ventured to fall prey to the lure of the hook, perhaps because they were satiated with the algae that populated the bottom of the lagoon.
There was a small stream that crossed the grandfather's property and flowed into the lagoon, in rainy seasons its waters were enough to bathe in it and my brothers and I were happy when our family visit coincided with this phenomenon.
We also bathed in the courtyard when it rained and invented games, taking advantage of the coincidence with one or more of my father's siblings, something that was not common but that happened on several occasions.
Among the things that caught my attention were the trees emerging from the bottom of it and that curiously served as a measure of its depth.
Once I asked my grandfather who had planted them and he replied that nature was so wise that it regenerated itself.
I was a city boy and my contact with nature was limited to these visits, but as I grew up I became grateful for everything he taught us about caring for it and today I am part of an organisation that fights for it.
Seeing the now blurred photo of the lagoon transported me for a few minutes to a piece of my childhood, to happy moments that I treasure in my heart.