Posted on by R

Duelo 2

Estábamos en un bus.

(Como aquél en el que, extrañamente, un día grité “los vidrios no hacen daño”, o algo así. Tú me pediste que bajáramos del bus. Estabas asustada. Quizás veías que yo tenía un problema en la cabeza. Mi cabeza estaba haciendo corto circuito. Un tiempo después tuve un ataque de epilepsia. Cuatro años con carbamazepina. ¿Cuánto cambié luego de esto? Imposible saberlo.)

Era un bus antiguo, de esos en los que me daba miedo viajar porque pensaba que se desarmarían. Me costó acostumbrarme a andar en bus, pero era nuestro medio de transporte.

No recuerdo al conductor. Ahora me fijo en el conductor porque pienso que si es otro el que conduce, es algo que no puedo —literalmente— manejar. Un contexto que me aplasta.

Había más gente en el bus, pero no recuerdo a nadie que conozca.

Estábamos sentados en la parte de atrás. Esa que había que evitar para no ser se asaltado.

Te levantaste, caminaste por el pasillo hacia la puerta delantera. No sé si había una puerta trasera, pero quizás el bus era tan antiguo que sólo tenía una puerta.

Yo te miré caminar a la puerta y pedir que el bus pare. Esa era tu parada. Me miraste fijamente.

Sentí una angustia enorme. Creo que no dije nada.

Me dijiste adiós. Bajaste del bus mientras yo me quedaba pegado al asiento.

Una pena enorme me despertó llorando.

No te he visto desde entonces. No te he visto. Desde entonces.

No te he visto en mis sueños y no he soñado gran cosa.

Yo sigo en el bus, pegado a mi asiento.

Kilómetros atrás fue tu bajada y el bus sigue adelante sin parar.

Quizás este bus va en círculos.

Quizás la parada es sólo una.

Quizás no me alejo, sólo voy en círculos.

O será alejarse la única forma de volver.

Como sea, ese bus no lo manejo yo.

Yo sólo tengo una bicicleta.

Posted on by R

Dream 1

I was working in my room, or the small room that we use as a little library. My mom came to see me.

(She used to do that. She’d come and just look at me in some sort of contemplative state. She’d tell me that seeing me around, reading, or concentrated on my (infinite) set of problems to solve would make her feel fulfilled, happy. And just now I get that she’s the one who thought me to learn, to study, as some sort of rebellious act against a reality that wanted to erase me, that almost erased her. She wanted to be a medical doctor, but her context wanted her dead. She became a beloved teacher, especially of those who where from immigrant families, the other to-be-erased kids on her life.)

The feeling she had resembled the powerless sight of someone who can’t quite say what needs to be said on the loosing side of life. She looked at me, raised her arms in a shrug, and said something like “yoyito, perdóname por no seguir mirándote”.

(yoyito – how she used to call me)

Or at least that’s what I felt. Maybe that’s what I feel now. Or was just that dream? I do think she’s with me now. But I’d never see her on my window again.

(Not on my window, but I feel she’s on my eyes now, two windows looking what I could not show to her. My life here, the birds I like, the plants I keep, the details impossible to explain to anyone but myself. My biggest treasures, definitely inexplicable.)

We went to another room. It was empty, limitless. There was a chair where she sat and covered her face with both hands. She repeated something along the lines of “que terrible”, complaining, frustrated for what happened.

(Her strength, after 18 years of fighting, was defeated by the other side of life. I was with my dad in the kitchen. We were trying to survive the moment while my aunt was telling her to rest, to sleep. She finally decided to sleep, in spite of her unbreakable will.)

There was a baby in my arms. Her face was my mom’s face. Strange, but not scary. My mom, sitting on her chair, said something like “que desastre”. We knew there was something odd with all of this. Maybe the baby was supposed to fly?

(Expressions like “que terrible”, “que desastre”, were common in her, when talking about anything really. I’d always try to avoid that trend of pessimism (I’m enough pessimist I’d say, no need for a gathering of us digging holes to put our heads in), and take it somewhere else less dark.

I was fighting with the dream, trying to make things better, to show her that things could be better. The baby’s face started to become younger and younger, until finally matching the face of a child. It was my mom’s face when she was a child.

(Something I could just imagine, as I haven’t seen photos of her at that age.)

I told her “mira, mira”. She looked at the baby, but the baby was supposed to fly. I concentrated, I was trying to make the baby fly. I knew she should be flying, but this could be one of those dreams where everything goes the wrong way.

(Like when your parents take a bus and you run behind it, but you can’t run. Then you try to scream, but you can’t make any sound.)

Then, the baby started levitating from my hands. I carefully move them down, letting her sit on the vacuum. I made her fly, somehow. I told my mom “mira, está volando!”. She looked at the floating thing. I woke up.