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The Structure of Houses Within a thimble there was a sewing room where Grandmother would embroider roses when she, as a child, had to stay on the shadow side of light so as not to be led astray by the noises of the world. Within a photo of the father there was a young man who returned to the mountains crossing fields burnt by war, and there were bodies finished off by firing squad rotting at the bottom of his eyes. Behind an old glove there was a vanished brother, in an empty pill bottle madness lay in wait; from the chipped plates a family ate, seated around an oak table; within a chest the mother kept letters from men who had courted her, and with the letters hope and privation and pens advancing slowly over the rough paper of past lives. In your history there were histories impossible to clean up, and closed rooms that would never open, because the structures of houses are interminable and concentric Chinese puzzles (boxes within boxes within boxes) — and mysterious in the same way.
Estructura de las casas Dentro de un dedal había un salón de costura donde la abuela bordaba rosas cuando era niña obligada a quedarse del revés de la luz para que no distrajesen los ruidos del mundo. Dentro de una foto del padre había un joven que regresaba a las montañas cruzando campos ardidos por la guerra, y había cuerpos acabados de fusilar pudriéndose en el fondo de las pupilas. Detrás de un guante viejo había un hermano desaparecido, en un pastillero vacío acechaba la locura; sobre los platos cascados comía una familia sentada en torno de una mesa de roble; dentro de un cofre la madre guardaba cartas de pretendientes, y con las cartas esperanza y pobreza y plumas que avanzaban despacio sobre el papel rugoso de las vidas pasadas. En tu historia había historias imposibles de limpiar y cuartos cerrados que no se abrirían nunca porque las estructuras de las casas son cajas chinas interminables y concéntricas y de la misma manera misteriosas.
María Rosa Lojo |