Beatriz and Gilda, whom he named "in strict alphabetical order, as they say in the contests, have played, probably unknowingly and unwittingly, the chair that my mother left too many Octobers ago this May. No wonder that both are, in turn, mothers of two of the most important people in my life, Mario and Mercedes (I with the alphabet.)
write full of doubts, wandering between two fears: first, relegating other endearing love and affection after the stubborn habit of classifying and ordering him to walk around and, on the other sin of vanity and give reason to say I Josefa love to boast of many good friends I have. Julio Ramón Ribeyro once stated that he needed money because he had friends, I believe the same thing (although I confess that I have not asked what they think those potentially affected.)
Mario've known him since we were the two maladjusted children in fourth grade, ran 1979, we had ten years, so its thinness and my fat had reached its splendor but we spent several hours at a sedentary task of reproducing, in the tortured past pages of our notebooks, the fiercest battles in which the Luftwaffe was ravaging the British skies defended by those "very few" of the RAF that so many owe so much from the speech Churchill. A Mercedes first met in 1983 when on a retreat (yes, those priests, confessions and talks tear) misplaced a quotation mark (which until today still under discussion) allowed me to intrude on your group, talk, brag and meet Ricardo's girlfriend (another friend who retain infinity). Existence without them would not be what it is; thanks and have shared misery, anger and joy, closeness and distance, funerals and birthdays, births and deaths, words and words are, along with my brothers, those few people you would not think chest without ever pretending that they do for me.
How could it be strange, then, that Beatrice and Gilda, who in turn have been known since the days of their own youth-were these two amazing women who, with a statement, tenderness, solidarity and unselfishness, to rise up in my life as these names I can put next to Victoria, my mother, knowing that not only do not offend but, rather, the honor honor them with the devout, simple and deep filial love they profess? Being in what were the family homes of Mario and Mercedes, it feels like mine, in my parents' open the door, answer the phone, pillage the refrigerator, eat dessert, sit at ease in their chairs or talk to any of its inhabitants, are actions so natural, so common, so everyday, that can only be done freely in the home that shelters us and me, forgive the vanity, I harbor those houses like mine. Beatriz
existed since the first time I visited Mario, we had grown, as were the two friends talking in the courtyard of the school while other, less fat and less lean, more agile and coordinated, popcorn filled the football goal with cries, claims and balls more than once broke windows or embedded in the stomach outside the epic fight. Everything else was a matter of years, to transfer the grating frequency, to be there every afternoon, making primers and endless lunches, to stay talking to Victor, her husband died when Mario was a child, listening to the songs idealized and truncated that love wrote on the lips of Beatrice, to share the stories of other times, a thousand times to hear the story of love that only a infarction, early and fierce, expropriated permanently. Beatriz was the loving smile, patience, pate incomparable while devouring, hungry, we waited for dinner redemption, long conversations about this and that, the worldly, neighborhood stories, novels exaggerated in the old saw, immense and wonderful black and white TV which takes so long to heat bulbs once forgot how to do and went out forever. Beatriz has always been activist and generous love, motherhood Assumed who saw (and see) in me a brother man who was not Mario, the other brother man she would be easier to take care of adolescence Mariana, the late sister's daughter, Lucho, remarriage, whose splendor bright girl still gets me every time I return to that house.
Gilda has always been a teacher, never had maternal attitudes, not a gesture forwarding an almost teacher, almost masterful. I started talking to her when, sometimes, delayed Mercedes in the street or in the shower, you did not bother to interrupt one of his hundred thousand activities and we sat in the room, under the gaze of two ancient Chinese porcelain my volume and my clumsiness were about to turn to shreds on several occasions. I do not know how everything evolved, but one day we were already corrected my clumsy first poems under the patient and rhythmic baton of its expertise as a piano teacher. It was hours, days, long days in which a Mercedes, bored with our talks on the meter and rhythm, used to play the piano, watching TV or going out with Ricardo (where delays are not "exceeded the excess" usually tolerated) . Of the sonnets and romances teenagers, whose dubious quality and abundant good will was the victim of "Mrs. Gilda", we turn to the endless conversations about life, in my arrogant readings of Nietzsche, Sartre, Camus, Russell or Hesse faced in very long and controversial kind, with his knowledge and experience. There was a conversation I will never forget, I write poems I was sore for a side whose favors were me and she corrected that impassive and implacable, he paused, confident that the years had given us, wondering what was happening. A "business as usual" was enough and embarked on a long talk of which I remember, as clearly then, the last words: "This is not your time, your time will come later when you get older, when other things that matter, those things are really important. I know that every time I tell this reinvented the phrase that my poor memory artful twists, but the spirit and the love with which it was spoken and heard are kept intact. Gilda and Beatriz
probably do not know, but, beyond the distance voracious beyond kilometers multiply beyond the unpardonable ingratitude of exile within days of visiting the city, beyond my stills in my absence, my forgetfulness never remember anniversaries and birthdays, beyond the letters of my stories, sometimes clear and sometimes confusing, sometimes sad and sometimes ironic, "beyond time and beyond all, they survive with the serenity of accurate, with the calm of what is true, with the quiet friendly than it already does not require proof or evidence.
As I know my mother is not to be (without ever leave me) in each of the steps I walk the way, I also know that Beatrice and Gilda, in its forms, in their ways, their respect and caution, in this triad are superb unique love that make this too May-December and lights too far, again, of hopes and plans, dreams and illusions, roads and stations likely safe where it will be impossible to be alone, where loneliness that old wolf-hungry because they can not eat me, real mothers, body and soul mothers, mothers endless, tireless watch, each in its own way, because I-still-child for them to reach the port again and sleep in peace and recovery in their certainty as forces for the next battle day.
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