my mother's hands
They don't look like birds in the air, although now they can look like cobwebs of the cosmos, like the stars, but in a constellation of little bones inside the drawer, in the cemetery.
While she was alive, my mother did not love life or make the everyday magical: she had her moment of glory as a psychoanalyst, she liked to live. A lot. But she had that mania. She did not make the everyday magical, but analyzable. Unbearably analyzable. My mother, in a way, was a monster. She tried so hard to raise me correctly, free, but without anything hurting me, that she did not have any trauma, that nothing hurts me, that I am forever safe from pain, which is a way of denying life. May she live safe from life. That nothing hurts me She worked so hard that today I tremble. Scary. Panic. And terror. When I get the monthly letter with outlandish legal threats addressed to the previous tenant. In this dirty apartment where I have lived for many years. To me the previous tenant is dead. He left many debts. Nobody, in the real knowledge of him, believes he can collect. They know they scare but they don't bite. The letters from the serial menaces are so ridiculous. TRIALS. EMBARGOS. EXECUTIONS. All the horror of time and space that a legal mind can think of. I mean, little one. Vulgar. Shooting malandra with class.
My mother knew that life was not a miracle of love. But she wanted me not to find out. And she ended up obsessed because, if she were to find out to me by my own means when she was already ashes, she would bear it stoically. With an epic obligation for joy.
They must be very strange people. The one who makes those youtube videos. With a song. What do you like. They put pictures of it. linear. What they say. Or what they think the lyrics say. They make it cheesy. Frighteningly cheesy.
That is my mother's legacy.
That she analyzed everything.
My father. It was more practical. Like every melancholic alcoholic. He put the necessary share of pessimism. Embittered. Melancholic. Tender, always, with me. He always tried to make me never look like him. Don't take it as an example. Don't admire it. May he never delude me. And that if he did them to me, he should fix them. when they dissolve. When they go. How do parents leave one day?
To decide, to continue. To emphasize and consider.
My father was too realistic.
My mother was too optimistic.
They got an exaggerated son, who laughs at himself.
I think they would be proud of me.