2023-10-15 10:30:00
It was the year 69, and while the first man set foot on the lunar surface, I floated peacefully in the amniotic fluid inside the my mother’s womb. And she gave birth to me on December 5, a month earlier than expected; maybe because of the anxiety of having me in his arms. I am eight-month-old, unfinished and imperfect. And time passed, as is its custom.
Hoy It seems incredible to me that my mother is no longer here at all here; Yes, that’s what I said, or rather I wrote: it seems incredible to me that my mother is no longer here at all. Because although my psychoanalyst feasts on this idea: I feel that she is not completely dead.
Every now and then we meet in some corner of the strange dream world where we can share what the damn vigil prevents us from. Without going any further, last night I dreamed about her.
Is intelligence inherited from the mother?
I dreamed that I was accompanying her down a difficult stone path; she was slow, with the ailments of her final version of his transit through the earth. In the dream, as in earthly life, I tried to protect her so that she would not fall, to prevent her from suffering again; as if that had depended on me… In a moment, like Simon of Cyrene with the cross of Jesus on the road to Calvary, I lifted it to relieve him of the tiring walk; and I can assure you that I felt the weight of him, the weight of his human ailments.
Debate for girl mothers: does the maternal instinct exist?
I woke up, jumped out of bed, and immediately began to write what I dreamed with the firm intention of not continuing to lose it, to also retain it in this writing as a document, testimony of its existence.
Mothers don’t die at all. My mother appears from time to time in memories, in dreams, in dialogues familiar, in photos and videos, in sensations as diverse and seasoned as their meals. It is an absence present in some words, in sentences and phrases where I can continue dialoguing (and arguing) with it. I am distracted by life, and suddenly the smell of their potato cake, their empanadas or tucos that no one could or will imitate embraces me.
Yes, mothers don’t die at all. But still, I miss my mom; I miss his presence on this plane, that of the hugs, that of the Sunday barbecues, mates and tricks.
Inequality: mothers continue to bear the burden when it comes to facing the tasks of schooling
Yes, strange the word “son” dressed with the magic of her voice. I miss his childish laugh. I even miss her anger and outbursts. One pandemic day he had to leave, because that is how tragic the condition of living beings is. But unlike other mortals, a mother does not die completely, she leaves her footprints, her teachings, her testimony, and above all, she leaves her birth beings as a fundamental sign of her hope in creation and the love for life.
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#Mothers #dont #die