Today I went to my appointment with the hair doctor (that’s what I call the dermatologist trichologist).

He handed me a piece of paper and a pen and said: write a list of all those things you’re talking about, make two columns, one with a (-) sign and another with a (+) sign.

He left me alone.

So I started thinking about things that are recurring in my life: in the early mornings, the city, the streets, wine, the sound of your footsteps, the smell of the sea, snow, a melting clock, drawings, Millás’ book, a soccer ball, white sheets, a hallway, big vintage speakers that I keep with care, plastic containers, cold, voices, rain, gray sky…

I could make a long list. No more, no less.

In the end, I remembered that I once worked in a ministry and made lists. When I worked at a digital agency, I also made them. I always make shopping lists for my mother (and I made them well: I’d wash my hands before making them, use block letters, detail the quantities…) and they would ask me, “Is the list ready?” and I would laugh.

I don’t like making lists because when I reread them, I realize who I was. I don’t like that game, I don’t like recalling the past in items or inventories.

So I write along the two columns of pluses and minuses.

I wish I had a magic wand from a Gryffindor wizard.

Then I could organize my things (+) (-) by waving it in circles over everything around me, start to tidy up everything, and even clean all the dishes in the kitchen with a wave of the wand (Abracadabra).

I could do my work and submit my proposals in a second.

With the wand, I could stop hearing those words that echo in my head, make certain people in the café invisible, finish a task with fewer hours, not have to think about paperwork.

With the wand, I would travel all the time, start writing a novel, organize my stories, and cut my hair without fear of the scissors.

With the wand, coffee would come to my table every morning while I read the newspaper, and when I take a taxi, the driver who doesn’t usually greet me would say hello.

With the wand, I would erase those words that have turned me to dust, some past secrets I discovered. With the wand, I would give shine to the lies I never know how to tell properly.

And with the wand in my right hand, with a wavy, circular motion of my wrist, I would make your gaze turn to me in that street among the crowd.

You and I, we would recognize each other then, and I would walk toward you with the wand in hand, with a smile, with the appearance of a very old wizard to your eyes.

Then perhaps the wand would be so powerful that it could make you fall in love with me, right there in the middle of all those people coming and going.

And as that happens, I would think of all the magic, all the past, see your enamored eyes, your arms almost extending in a hug toward me.

Then I would thrust the cold, sharp wand with a swift and precise blow right into the middle of your left side, into the center of your heart.

I would walk back calmly, knowing that when I got home, I would have to wash the dishes again and make myself some coffee.

Even though I thought all this, I couldn’t write any of it because all I needed to write down were my allergies, family diseases, the ones I suffer from, routine, etc.

I leave what I wrote there and say goodbye until the next appointment. In the end, he says he’ll send me the results by email.

I kept the promotional pen that advertises the name of a blue medicine because he told me I could. I like the ink of the pen, I like the color (it’s cobalt blue), and I like how that silver clip on the cap glimmers.

I look at the pen and walk down the streets imagining it’s my wand.

Hoping, deep down, that maybe this afternoon you’ll appear in the middle of that crowd waiting for magic out there.

Even though I know that’s not possible.