Epílogo: A mi padre
¿Quién en su nombre,
contará la historia fragmentada?
Mónica González Velásquez
Con su radio
al fondo del pasillo,
silla de ruedas que cava
en su nostalgia,
esa de días presurosos,
de saludos a mitad
en medio de la avenida.
Revive otras épocas,
mira fijamente
hacia el patio
que ha hecho suyo
día a día.
Lo veo
desde la distancia
distancia que he dado
en llamar prudente.
Lo observo encorvado,
su mano izquierda
sosteniendo su barbilla,
el índice tembloroso,
constancia de una enfermedad
que empieza a inundarlo.
Su mirada minusválida,
ya en decadencia,
traspasa los lentes que estrenó
hace más de una década.
Espanta parsimonioso
una mosca de su frente,
a su izquierda un mosquitero
esconde un ser consumido
que solo balbucea.
Interrumpen el pasillo
dos mujeres pedigüeñas
embadurnadas de abandono.
Él gesticula,
acerca el radio a su oído,
bosteza e inclina la cabeza
hasta quedar medio dormido.
Escucha pasos a lo lejos,
abre los ojos desbordados.
Estira su mano fría y sudorosa,
se arma de mejor semblante,
encuentra la mejor sonrisa,
se la calza de a poco en el rostro
al descubrirse invadido /
con mi presencia.
Epilogue: To my Father
Who, in their name,
will tell the fragmented story?
Mónica González Velásquez
With his radio
at the end of the hallway,
wheelchair that digs
into his nostalgia,
that of hasty days,
of half-greetings
in the middle of the avenue.
He relives other times,
looks firmly
towards the patio
he has made his
day by day.
I see him
from the distance
distance that I have chosen
to call prudent.
I observe him slouched,
his left hand
holding his chin,
his index finger trembling,
sign of an illness
that starts to drown him.
His disabled gaze,
already in decline,
looks through the outworn glasses
that he first used
over a decade ago.
He scares off, parsimonious,
a fly on his forehead,
to his left, a mosquito net
hides a consumed being
that only babbles.
The corridor is interrupted
by two begging women
smeared with abandonment.
He gestures,
nears the radio to his ear,
yawns and bows his head
until he is half asleep.
He hears steps far away,
opens his overwhelmed eyes.
He stretches his cold and sweaty hand,
conjures his best countenance,
finds his best smile,
and squeezes it slowly onto his face
when he finds himself invaded /
by my presence.
Iara Cardo was born in Argentina and is a translator and professor of Spanish Language at York College, The City University of New York.
Juana M. Ramos was born in Santa Ana, El Salvador, and currently lives in New York City where she is a professor of Spanish and literature at York College, the City University of New York (CUNY). She has participated in international poetry festivals and recitals in Mexico, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Honduras, Cuba, Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Argentina, Guatemala, and Spain. She has published several books of poetry: Multiplicada en mí (Artepoética Press, 2010; revised and augmented second edition, 2014); Palabras al borde de mis labios (miCieloediciones, 2014), En la batalla (Editorial La Chifurnia, 2016), Ruta 51C (Editorial La Chifurnia, 2017), Sobre luciérnagas (Editorial La Chifurnia, 2019) and Sin ambages/To the Point (Cuadernos Negros Editorial, 2020), and Clementina (Libros Chifurnia, 2021). She is coauthor of Tomamos la palabra: mujeres en la guerra civil de El Salvador (1980-1992) (UCA Editores, 2016), a collection of testimonies of women who fought in El Salvador’s civil war. Her poems and narratives have been published in several anthologies and literary magazines, both in print and digital format, throughout Latin America, the United States, and Spain. Her work has been partially translated into English, Portuguese, and French.