From there down, deep inside, I rise today to a sad soul. It's a strange melancholy, which produces the awareness of knowing that one is going to die. particular, I am deeply convinced, like Tolstoy, that the matter of literature is nothing other than death, hide or deal with it.
When I was a kid and wore shorts, a warm morning in my village those that precede the heavy showers, sudden, evening, without knowing me why, my father lifted me off the ground with their arms while watching my feet away from the pavement of the spacious room. A little more and closed my eyes to blink. A little more and I opened. Before me, suddenly appeared Pola, dead, stuffed with pieces of cotton in the nostrils, the skin of anemic pale and serious expression and quiet.
But it was that time when I understood that he would die. To get to there are still many things missing, missing on all arriving here, the dusty streets barriecito, the computer I'm writing, the unfinished floor where I live, in this house along with others, Bogotá pile just beyond which you can see the pastures and left the dead rot when they get rid of it.
La Pola was my great grandmother. The world has changed and the race has degenerated so much that today people do not die as old and certainly not known to their grandchildren or vice versa. We all killed by diseases: cancer of the colon, pancreas, bowels, memory, life, or a bullet, which of these abound here.
But I met her. He was a come from another time, perhaps the time of the Mariscal Robledo, the years of the telegraph and rail noise; one being baptized with a name that is no longer used and whose descendants have not chosen for any of their offspring. Fat like no other, with that clear and archaic Castilian old, he pronounces that clear, perfectly apicoalveolar almost affricate, as I have no one to hear again. Ill always lived, hated television, was a fan of bullfighting and loved to take the boiling soup, even on hot days.
was my father's favorite grandson, the Ream. However, as grandmothers are a kind of daimon good acolyte our Pilatuña chubby, I, the eldest son of my father, I inherited the right choice. But I did not enjoy big deal. La Pola went to weave the clouds when I was four.
Now I am old and soon go to meet him. Although perhaps only available to view from afar. Because the sky, the sky is said, most likely will not let me in, for matacuras.
But look at you how are things today in Colombia, which corrupts everything, the country of fools, where more and more talk bad, better, worse, 'pola' is a euphemism for beer. Crassus stupidity of an entire people! Come and insult the memory of someone so famous, ancient lighthouse of my progeny.
Today I heard: let's take a 'pola', man, it's Friday? And my mind repeated reckless (silently of course, that here I say aloud, take gun and bam!) Stringing you up the ass the devil, disrespectful. To me, tell me beer, cane liquor or beer if you will, forgive the Italians, but 'pola not, Pola respected.
As the firstborn from among their grandchildren, I'm the only one who does not forget. The others did so because to forget to remember and that they do not know. the not forgive (as they say, not knowing how to use pronouns or to know what is a plug direct). I will not ever forgive, I say.
But what's going to remember and Santa Fe de Policarpa Abad. Right, stupid people? You do not remember. The only one who does not forget me, who at night I miss the child touches that still owes me. Yo, that their descendants could, anybody, put me in his arms, lift her skirt innocently and then get on his legs to feel the heat of his meat fat.
Our farewell was brief indeed. In the presence of I at the top of the world, La Pola dead, suspended time, the priest came and started the sermon and prayers, the procession was organized and the parade began. Jesus of Nazareth, as they called the church, boiled with the afternoon sun. The white walls reverberated from nearby houses and, even under the bells, to be appeased embarrassment.
forever remain in my memory the slow walk lachrymose of daughters and granddaughters, aunts, her black dress and shawl purple headed the entourage, and also looks old sleepers after casing .
When, toward the cemetery all left after the burning of incense and the altar requiems Baroque, La Pola never saw her again. Returned to the house, no radio, no television, no entertainment to speak softly, not to move, to pray a thousand rosaries, to receive a thousand hits, until the days of mourning passed.
Now, in the confusing maelstrom of memories, I obfuscate the ideas and drown my eyes in big drops of salty tears tumble down on the soft ground, opened to show the bones and no meat Pola . And I'm still here, just as I go without it, without your love so pure, pure, yearning for their pampering, in the way of life. Of life, now I understand it, is nothing more than a perpetual insistence, a cynical stubbornness, the sovereign contempt of seeing eye, lungs breathing, heart beating, even though I no longer want.
Note: those who have missed my comments on their blogs, I apologize and a little patience. On weekends, I always try to get an update to where else I can.
* In the photo, www.flickr.com, the Central Cemetery of Bogota.
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