#argentina
Y es que no quisiera decepcionarte por mis actos.
No escucharte cuando tus lágrimas caían
creer que te quiero de la forma que vos querés
las promesas que no cumplí
no decir 'te amo' las veces que hace falta
las veces que no pude mirarte a los ojos
los tulipanes que nunca te regalé
pensar en vos, en tu decepción en mí
en mí pasado que vuelve a ser presente
las horas que murieron para que yo no haya cambiado
las letras que tienen mí firma
no tomarte de la mano aquél día
la imposibilidad de una versión de mí que,
alguna vez, prometí ser
por las palabras que nunca dijiste
No quiero decepcionar(me).
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 1:51 PM UTC
Hay cierta intimidad en recordar detalles cuando vos ya no los recordás.
No importan mis recuerdos
tampoco tu dulce perfume
ni la brisa rozando tu pelo
el verde de tu suéter
ni tu sonrisa sincera
la sensibilidad de tu alma
ni siquiera el frío sentir de mis manos
ni cuando ni cómo
ni por qué ni dónde
Hay cierta intimidad en recordar(te).
Dec 15, 2025
Dec 15, 2025 at 12:25 PM UTC
Los espejos son mentales.
Dice el ciego al ver su reflejo.
Vi partes de vos en mí y de mí en vos.
Me vi en tus ojos mirándote.
Guardé lágrimas en mi bolsillo.
La pregunta en nuestras miradas.
Supe volver a donde nunca fui.
Tus temores son los míos.
Leí tristeza en el ritmo de tu pecho.
Tu silencio me habla de vos.
Las mentes son espejos.
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 11:38 PM UTC
ya no sé si estás o si fuiste
si la copa está llena
o si el tiempo se vació
ya no sé si esta casa es casa
o si solo es eco de tu voz
ya no sé si este reloj marca la hora
o la herida que aún sangra
en las agujas del reloj
Jul 10, 2025
Jul 10, 2025 at 12:20 AM UTC
Volver a vernos,
tendidos bajo el cielo lleno de estrellas.
La noche oscura, sabia, cuenta cuentos y poesías,
donde el tiempo se escurre en dilemas
y el alma viaja sin esquemas.
Te espero,
entre la línea que dibujan el cielo y el mar,
sereno.
Es ahí, en la profundidad de las aguas
que se llevan mis temores y ansiedades marea adentro.
Donde resuena el blues cada vez que rompen las olas,
y un bolero cada vez que la marea vuelve a subir.
¿Será el río quien nos recuerda el camino?
Dicen que el amor es amarillo,
pero para mí es un jazz, un soul.
Un azul oscuro, fiel compañero,
o celeste como la bandera,
que colorea nuestra calma
y desdibuja el temor.
Pero fue al mirar tus ojos,
inundados de color,
que entendí que el cielo, la noche y el mar
eran solo ensayos
para preparar mi alma
al abismo sereno de tu mirada.
Jul 4, 2025
Jul 4, 2025 at 12:21 AM UTC
Viendo cómo caían las gotas de lluvia en su ventana, Luis, invadido por la melancolía, estuvo a punto de llamar a Gabriela, que había aprendido a dormir con lágrimas, y contarle cuánto la extrañaba. Hacía ya varios meses que no había comunicación y, desde ese momento, ella no había vuelto a casa.
Hubo muchas discusiones, gritos y silencios.
Luis era un hombre tanto de grandes aciertos como de grandes errores. Su camino fue áspero. Pasó por momentos de ira, ansiedad y problemas con el alcohol: no paraba de beber. Muchas veces salía y no volvía.
Luego de una fuerte pelea, fue a su joyería. Quería regalarle una cadena de oro a su esposa. Un gesto de paz, desde el lugar donde solía brillar lo que sus propias manos forjaban.
De repente, se escucharon disparos.
Entraron ladrones al local. El corazón le latía con fuerza. Se tiró al suelo y se metió bajo un escritorio. Fue entonces cuando la luz de la ventana iluminó una Biblia. Tenía un versículo subrayado:
"Mira que te mando que te esfuerces y seas valiente; no temas ni desmayes, porque Jehová tu Dios estará contigo en dondequiera que vayas" (Josué 1:9).
En ese instante, no tuvo miedo.
Uno de ellos lo encontró. Le apuntó con el arma, intentó disparar, el gatillo sonó. Pero la bala no salió. El ladrón simplemente huyó.
Ahí entendió que el Señor no había terminado su obra.
Una noche, lleno de angustia después de tantas discusiones, le dijo a Gabriela:
—Sé que fue mi culpa. Acepto mi error.
Amor, perdóname.
Dame una oportunidad.
De demostrarte que he cambiado.
El mismo no soy, porque algo pasó un buen día… fue que Dios llegó a mi vida
y la cambió.
En ese momento, ella no respondió. Y con mucho dolor, no lo perdonó.
Días más tarde, en la iglesia, la melodía de "Tú no permitas" sonaba de fondo.
Entonces, Gabriela lo vio. Era Luis. Llevaba el traje de su casamiento. Sus ojos, hechos de cristal.
Su alegría fue tanta al verlo allí, que corrió hacia él.
Aunque seguía enojada, nunca dejó de orar por su esposo.
Le dijo:
—Uno puede ser vencido; dos, en cambio, resisten mejor; pues no se rompe fácilmente una cuerda de tres cabos (Eclesiastés 4:12).
Jehová, mediante un sueño, le había mostrado que ese día, tarde o temprano, iba a llegar.
Y fue ahí, no con flores, sino con lágrimas, donde se volvieron a encontrar.
No perfectos, no sin heridas.
Pero esta vez, con Dios entre los dos.
Y esa tarde, Gabriela ya no vio al hombre que la lastimó…
Sino al hombre que, con Jesús, volvió a nacer.
Porque el que está en Cristo, nueva criatura es (2 Corintios 5:17).
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 1:36 AM UTC
Hay quienes creen que el amor se expresa con palabras.
Tan ingenuos, piensan que un “te amo” mentiroso y superficial bastaría para enamorar a una mujer que ya conoció el vínculo más puro.
Ella sabe que lo eterno no viste de flores ni de promesas, sino de heridas y verdad.
Que no se grita, se sacrifica.
Y que el mayor acto de amor que recibió fue de un hombre perfecto, sin pecado, que fue torturado y crucificado para que todos nosotros fuésemos salvos.
¿Cómo podrían amarla aquellos que no conocen al que dio su vida por amor?
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:12 PM UTC
Alberto, un señor de 67 años, oriundo de la ciudad de Mendoza, exjefe de una pequeña vinoteca, vivía solo tras la pérdida de su esposa en un accidente de tránsito.
Era un hombre generalmente tranquilo, aunque muy inestable, con problemas de salud como taquicardia, sudoración y temblores. A menudo sentía un malestar innegable, algo constante que no lo dejaba estar en paz, pero luchaba por mantener la cordura.
Paseaba las calles y plazas de su ciudad repitiendo una frase de María, "Dicen que el tiempo cura, pero nadie te dice cómo se vive sin la mitad de tu alma". Siempre llevaba consigo un reloj de bolsillo, regalo de María, su difunta esposa. No lo llevaba para ver la hora, sino como un recuerdo de su mujer.
Un día fue a visitar a Miguel, un excompañero suyo. Encendió el motor de su Ford Falcon amarillo modelo '81, después de mucho tiempo sin uso y se dirigió a un pueblo a las afueras de la ciudad. La tarde había quedado atrás. La oscuridad había empezado a caer. Pocas luces. Mucha niebla. Ver a distancia era casi imposible.
Durante el viaje, llorando, recordaba a María mientras sonaba Spinetta en la radio, el que solían escuchar juntos.
"Y si acaso no brillara el sol,
y quedara yo atrapado aquí,
no vería la razón,
de seguir viviendo sin tu amor.
Y hoy enloquecido vuelvo,
buscando tu querer,
no queda más que viento".
coreaba entre lágrimas.
Revisando el maletero, buscaba algo, sin saber qué. Encontró una foto de ellos dos junto al mar, pero sus rostros se diluían, como si fueran arrastrados marea adentro. El corazón le latió fuerte. Tanto, que empezó a sentir un dolor agudo en el pecho.
En un momento, se encontró con un camión que venía perdiendo el control, giró el volante y se tiró al costado. Desconcertado y sin ver nada, terminó conduciendo derecho hacia un abismo. Pisó el freno a último momento, pero el auto se arrastró sobre el barro y quedó colgando del borde. Terminó rompiendo el parabrisas, que reflejaba algo ya extinto. Cristales por todos lados, como si hubiera dañado su espejo.
En su mano, el artefacto intacto, funcionaba mejor que nunca. Buscaba a María, atrapada en las agujas de su reloj. Uno que ya no medía el paso del tiempo, sino que repetía lo perdido en laberintos de ausencia.
Todavía marca la hora.
Los minutos.
Los segundos.
7:10 a.m.
La visión se quebró.
Dejando eternos e infinitos fragmentos.
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 1:23 AM UTC
Empezamos este camino pensando que iba a ser sencillo, soñando con llegar a la luna, creyendo en la infinidad de nuestros años, aún siendo conscientes de que todo tiene un inicio y un final, pensábamos que el fin quedaría distante, tan lejano como la luna misma.
Pero yo siempre miré al cielo sabiendo que todo lo puedo en Cristo que me fortalece, y así fue,
partimos en ese viaje.
El camino no fue recto, sino un entramado de senderos desviados y bifurcaciones inciertas,
donde cada paso cargaba el peso de decisiones y cada tropiezo era una lección que ardía en la piel.
El futuro se volvió un abismo de incertidumbre que se hacía cada vez más grande con cada paso que dábamos.
En medio de todo, llegamos a un hermoso lago, pero pronto descubrimos que no era agua tranquila, sino un río impredecible, un huracán que giraba sobre sí mismo.
Mezclaba pasado y presente, arrastraba sueños rotos y esperanzas nacientes.
Entendimos que el camino era la prueba y el tiempo, el juicio.
Pero no uno imparcial, sino un reflejo de nuestras propias luchas y silencios.
Porque en cada caída, en cada cicatriz, en cada decisión que tomamos,
le arrancamos un fragmento al tiempo para hacerlo nuestro.
Empezábamos a encontrar ese final ya cercano,
como si fueran las últimas páginas de un libro,
y recordábamos todo lo que escribimos con tinta sobre el papel de nuestras vidas.
Finalmente, llegamos a ese punto inevitable,
donde el polvo del camino se asentó y el eco de nuestros pasos se desvaneció.
Dios, contento al ver nuestra valentía,
sonreía desde el cielo.
La luna, llena de alegría, brillaba como nunca.
Y ya en el final del camino, nos miramos a los ojos para darnos cuenta de lo que el tiempo hizo con nosotros y de lo que nosotros hicimos con el tiempo.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 11:33 AM UTC
Admiro a las personas amables, la gente buena, bondadosa, sensible, respetuosa.
Aquellas que te enseñan algo con pocas palabras, pero bien elegidas.
Porque elegir las palabras no es tan simple como parece.
Tener un vocabulario selecto, más bien preciso y delicado, con significado, sin dejar nada a la interpretación, es un arte.
Pensar antes de hablar es más difícil de lo que parece, y lo que decimos puede marcar el día de alguien.
Un elogio puede alegrarlo; una palabra hiriente, arruinarlo.
También creo que cada persona que entra en nuestra vida trae una enseñanza, ya sea buena o mala.
Pero depende de nosotros aprender la lección o dejarla en el olvido.
Admiro a esas personas que enseñan a vivir, a soñar, a amar, a reír, a reflexionar.
A quienes enfrentan la vida con una actitud positiva y transmiten amor, paz, lealtad y bienestar.
Aquellos que ven la vida como una película y la romantizan porque encuentran amor en todas partes.
"El amor es paciente, es bondadoso.
El amor no es envidioso ni presumido ni orgulloso.
No se comporta con rudeza, no es egoísta, no se enoja fácilmente, no guarda rencor.
El amor no se deleita en la maldad, sino que se regocija con la verdad.
Todo lo disculpa, todo lo cree, todo lo espera, todo lo soporta."
(1 Corintios 13:4-7)
Pero incluso quienes nos dan malos ejemplos nos dejan una enseñanza.
Porque de lo malo también se aprende, y mucho.
Saber distinguir qué nos enseña cada persona es clave para decidir con quién quedarse, porque al final, todos nos dejan algo.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 10:25 AM UTC
Pobre de mi,
no porque sufra de escasez,
sino por la perversidad de tu amor,
desde el primer día estaba condenado,
te amé y firmé mi sentencia,
pobre en pena, pobre de olvido,
desdichado, mísero, perdido,
pobre, prisionero de tu conjuro,
vidente de mi mala fortuna,
fui tu muñeco vudú.
Pobre de mi,
pobre en amor propio, pues se ahogó en tus aguas,
y quizás nunca retorne,
pobre en seguridad, tenías la llave de mi corazón, ya no hay latidos, solo ecos de lo que alguna vez fue, te vestiste de cordero, pero me arrancaste el alma con garras de lobo.
Pobre de mi,
pues, mis venas secas ya no sienten el pulso,
pobre en vida, fuiste la bala que marcó mi final, una parte de mí murió el día en que te vi.
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC
En la ventana de tu alma,
veo reflejada la paz, esa que busco,
encuentro tu luz, que enciende mi ser,
vivo en tu querer, como un fuego abrazador,
en cada abrazo sereno, me refugio en tu calor,
cálido, como café en invierno,
que quita el sueño, que aviva los sentidos,
café como tus ojos, hechos cristales,
transparentes, como ventanas,
mirándome, mirándote,
mirándonos,
en la ventana de tu alma.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 11:15 AM UTC
a wet street is not similiar to rain
but it's a sign that it has rained
fever's not flu
but it's a sign
i woke up with my hands soaked in wine
and begging you two things:
1- excess
2- not going home
can we have only first dates where we can always be
anyone else?
can we exchange habits?
close my eyes between your legs
i love burnt bread, black coffee and butter
and swimming through time towards time
like in a midnight carless highway
fever's not flu;
it's desire's errands
it's a trip you tell no one
it's a page or a screen.
it's a sign,
how would you describe it?
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 10:04 PM UTC
is there something stranger than kindness?
i woke up with an idea in my tongue:
let's play a song that remind us of us.
let's call it a quest.
my dear, my darling one.
it started out as an apology
and ended up as a misty and sweet
winter garden.
what do fireflies sing in the dark?
your skin crash landed on my skin,
a bottle of gin and two tons
of self driven fingertips and all-ins.
nothing never really mattered
nothing never feels new
never any different.
i thought i knew better
-i thought i was really sorry-
i thought i knew bitter.
this is my dream, but if you don't like it
i have better ones.
buy me some.
i'm just building a house a brick per day.
somehow.
it's been a long time.
that's why they call it No-Leather-Shoes-Holiday.
take these before we run away.
kind of empty by the way.
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 12:52 PM UTC
I heard the chimes
of iniquitous wind
rush in upon
familial branches bent
in the middle
it sent the smallest stems
adrift
to spiral
as lost sons and daughters
captured in darkness
and forced to bow before
the lightning strikes
of tyranny
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 9:33 AM UTC
in Argentina
the name for *******
is
“la bombacha”
but with the accent
of Che
it leaves the lips
“Bom-ba-ja”
and it sounds as sweet
as they
look
on thin
brown hips
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 1:08 AM UTC
They also came for you in the middle of the night,
But found that you had gone to Buenos Aires.
The Guardia Civil questioned your wife in her home,
Surrounded by your four young children, in loud but respectful tones.
They waved their machine guns about for a while,
But left no visible scars on your children,
Or on your young wife, whom you
Left behind to raise them alone.
You had been a big fish in a little pond,
A successful entrepreneur who made a very good living,
By buying cattle to be raised by those too poor
To buy their own who would raise them for you.
They would graze them, use them to pull their plows
And sell their milk, or use it to feed their too numerous children.
When they were ready for sale, you would take them to market,
Obtain a fair price for them, and equally split the gains with those who raised them.
All in all, it was a good system that gave you relative wealth,
And gave the poor the means to feed their families and themselves.
You reputation for unwavering honesty and fair dealing made many
Want to raise cattle for you, and many more sought you out to settle disputes.
On matters of contracts and disputed land boundaries your word was law.
The powerless and the powerful trusted your judgment equally and sought you out
To settle their disputes. Your judgment was always accepted as final because
Your fairness and integrity were beyond question. “If Manuel says it, it is so.”
You would honor a bad deal based on a handshake and would rather lose a
Fortune than break your word, even when dealing with those far less honorable
Than yourself. For you a man was only as good as his word, and you knew that the
Greatest legacy you could leave your children was an unsullied name.
You were frugal beyond need or reason, perhaps because you did not
Want to flaunt your relative wealth when so many had nothing.
It would have offended your social conscience and belied your politics.
Your one extravagance was a great steed, on which no expense was spared.
Though thoughtful, eloquent and soft-spoken, you were not shy about
Sharing your views and took quiet pride in the fact that others listened
When you spoke. You were an ardent believer in the young republic and
Left of center in your views. When the war came, you were an easy target.
There was no time to take your entire family out of the country, and
You simply had too much to lose—a significant capital tied up in land and
Livestock. So you decided to go to Argentina, having been in the U.S. while
You were single and preferring self exile in a country with a familiar language.
Your wife and children would be fine, sheltered by your capital and by
The good will you had earned. And you were largely right.
Despite your wife’s inexperience, she continued with your business, with the
Help of your son who had both your eye for buying livestock and your good name.
Long years after you had gone, your teenaged son could buy all the cattle he
Wanted at any regional fair on credit, with just a handshake, simply because
He was your son. And for many years, complete strangers would step up offering a
Stern warning to those they believed were trying to cheat your son at the fairs.
“E o fillo do Café.” (He is the son of the Café, a nickname earned by a
Distant relative for to his habit of offering coffee to anyone who visited his
Office at a time when coffee was a luxury). That was enough to stop anyone
Seeking to gain an unfair advantage from dad’s youth and inexperience.
Once in Buenos Aires, though, you were a small fish in a very big pond,
Or, more accurately, a fish on dry land; nobody was impressed by your name,
Your pedigree, your reputation or your way of doing business. You were probably
Mocked for your Galician accent and few listened or cared when you spoke.
You lived in a small room that shared a patio with a little schoolhouse.
You worked nights as a watchman, and tried to sleep during the day while
Children played noisily next door. You made little money since your trade was
Useless in a modern city where trust was a highly devalued currency.
You were an anachronistic curiosity. And you could not return home.
When your son followed you there, he must have broken your heart;
You had expected that he would run your business until your return; but he
Quit school, tired of being called roxo (red) by his military instructors.
It must have been excruciatingly difficult for you. Dad never got your pain.
Ironically, I think I do, but much too late. Eventually you returned to Spain to
A wife who had faithfully raised your children alone for more than ten years and was
No longer predisposed to unquestioningly view your will as her duty.
Doubtless, you could no more understand that than dad could understand
You. Too much Pain. Too many dreams deferred, mourned, buried and forgotten.
You returned to your beloved Galicia when it was clear you would not be
Persecuted after Generalisimo Franco had mellowed into a relatively benign tyrant.
People were no longer found shot or beaten to death in ditches by the
Side of the road. So you returned home to live out the remainder of your
Days out of place, a caricature of your former self, resting on the brittle,
Crumbling laurels of your pre Civil War self, not broken, but forever bent.
You found a world very different from the one you had built through your
Decency, cunning, and entrepreneurship. And you learned to look around
Before speaking your mind, and spent your remaining days reined in far more
Closely than your old steed, and with no polished silver bit to bite upon.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:44 AM UTC
Your husband died at 40, leaving you to raise seven children alone.
But not before your eldest, hardest working son, Juan, had
Drowned at sea in his late teens while working as a fisherman to help
You and your husband put food on the table.
You lost a daughter, too,
Toñita, also in her early teens, to illness.
Their kind, pure souls found
Their way back home much too soon.
Later in life you would lose two more sons to tragedy, Paco (Francisco),
An honest, hard working man whose purposeful penchant for shocking
Language belied a most gentle nature and a generous heart. He was electrocuted by
A faulty portable light while working around his pool.
And the apple of your eye, Sito (José), your last born and most loving son, who
Had inherited his father’s exceptional looks, social conscience, left of center
Politics, imposing presence, silver tongue, and bad, bad luck, died, falling
Under the wheels of a moving train, perhaps accidentally.
In a time of hopelessness and poverty, you would not be broken.
You rose every day hours before the dawn to sell fish at a stand.
And every afternoon you placed a huge wicker basket on your head and
Walked many, many miles to sell even more fish in other towns.
Money was tight, so you often took bartered goods in
Exchange for your fish, giving some to those most in need,
Who could trade nothing in return but their
Blessings and their gratitude.
You walked back home, late at night, through darkness or
Moonlit roads, carrying vegetables, eggs, and perhaps a
Rabbit or chicken in a large wicker basket on your strong head,
Walking straight, on varicose-veined legs, driven on by a sense of purpose.
During the worst famine during and after the Civil War, the chimney of your
Rented home overlooking the Port of Fontan, spewed forth black smoke every day.
Your hearth fire burned to to feed not just your children, but also your less
Fortunate neighbors, nourishing their bodies and their need for hope.
You were criticized by some when the worst had passed, after the war.
“Why work so hard, Remedios, and allow your young children to go to work
At too young an age? You sacrifice them and yourself for stupid pride when
Franco and foreign food aid provide free meals for the needy.”
“My children will never live off charity as long as my back is strong” was your Reply.
You resented your husband for putting politics above family and
Dragging you and your two daughters, from your safe, comfortable home at
Number 10 Perry Street near the Village to a Galicia without hope.
He chose to tilt at windmills, to the eternal glory of other foolish men,
And left you to silently fight the real, inglorious daily battle for survival alone.
Struggling with a bad heart, he worked diligently to promote a better, more just
Future while largely ignoring the practical reality of your painful present.
He filled you with children and built himself the cross upon which he was
Crucified, one word at a time, leaving you to pick up the pieces of his shattered
Idealism. But you survived, and thrived, without sacrificing your own strong
Principles or allowing your children to know hardships other than those of honest work.
And you never lost your sense of humor. You never took anything or
Anyone too seriously. When faced with the absurdity of life,
You chose to smile or laugh out loud. I saw you shed many tears of laughter,
But not once tears of pain, sorrow or regret. You would never be a victim.
You loved people. Yours was an irreverent sense of humor, full of gentle irony,
And wisdom. You loved to laugh at yourself and at others, especially pompous fools
Who often missed your great amusement at their expense, failing to understand your Dismissal, delivered always with a smile, a gentle voice and sparkling eyes.
Your cataracts and near sightedness made it difficult for you to read,
But you read voraciously nonetheless, and loved to write long letters to loved ones and friends. You were a wise old woman, the wisest and strongest I will ever know,
But one with the heart of a child and the soul of an angel.
You were the most sane, most rational, most well adjusted human being
I have ever known. You were mischievous, but incapable of malice.
You were adventurous, never afraid to try or to learn anything new.
You were fun-loving, interesting, kind, rambunctious, funny and smart as hell.
You would have been an early adopter of all modern technology, had you lived long
Enough, and would have loved playing—and working—with all of my electronic
Toys. You would have been a terror with a word processor, email, and social media
And would have loved my video games—and beaten me at every one of them.
We were great friends and playmates throughout most of my life. You followed
Us here soon after we immigrated in 1967, leaving behind 20 other Grandchildren.
I never understood the full measure of that sacrifice, or the love that made it
Bearable for you. I do now. Too late. It is one of the greatest regrets of my life.
We played board games, cowboys and Indians, raced electric cars, flipped
Baseball cards and played thousands of hands of cards together. It never
Occurred to me that you were the least bit unusual in any way. I loved you
Dearly but never went far out of my way to show it. That too, I learned too late.
After moving to Buenos Aires, when mom had earned enough money to take
You and her younger brothers there, the quota system then in place made it
Impossible to send for your two youngest children, whose care you entrusted
Temporarily to your eldest married daughter, Maria.
You wanted them with you. Knowing no better, you went to see Evita Peron for help.
Unsurprisingly, you could not get through her gatekeepers. But you were
Nothing if not persistent. You knew she left early every morning for her office.
And you parked yourself there at 6:00 a.m., for many, many days by her driveway.
Eventually, she had her driver stop and motioned for you to approach.
“Grandmother, why do you wave at me every morning when I leave for work?”
She asked. You explained about your children in Spain. She took pity and scribbled a
Pass on her card to admit you to her office the next day.
You met her there and she assured you that a visa would be forthcoming;
When she learned that you made a living by cleaning homes and washing clothing,
She offered you a sewing machine and training to become a seamstress.
You thanked her but declined the offer.
“Give the sewing machine to another mother with no trade. My strong back and hands
Serve me well enough and I do just fine, as I have always done.”
Evita must have been impressed for she asked you to see her yet again when the
Children had arrived in Buenos Aires, giving you another pass. You said you would.
You kept your word, as always. And Evita granted you another brief audience,
Met your two youngest sons (José and Emilio) and shared hot chocolate and
Biscuits with the three of you. You disliked and always criticized Peron and the Peronistas,
But you never forgot Evita’s kindness and defended her all your life.
You were gone too quickly. I had not said “I love” you in years. I was too busy,
With school and other equally meaningless things to keep in touch. You
Passed away without my being there. Mom had to travel by herself to your
Bedside for an extended stay. The last time I wrote you I had sent you a picture.
It was from my law school graduation.
You carried it in your coat pocket before the stroke.
As always, you loved me, with all of my faults that made me
Unworthy of your love.
I knew the moment that you died. I awoke from a deep sleep to see a huge
White bird of human size atop my desk across from my bed. It opened huge
Wings and flew towards me and passed through me as I shuddered.
I knew then that you were gone. I cried, and prayed for you.
Mom called early the next day with the news that you had passed. She also
Told me much, much later that you had been in a coma for some time but that
You awoke, turned to her without recognizing her, and told her that you were going to
Visit your grandson in New York. Then you fell asleep for one last time.
I miss you every day.
[ To hear a YouTube reading of this poem in its entirety, you can visit the following URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OX6w1Pwe7gI ]
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC