In a life I never had
we live this moment together,
hand in hand, out in the street.
You carefully gather your skirt
up to your knees,
while in one hand you hold lemon, baking soda, and water,
and in the other, a protest sign
that has taken all night to finish.
You are attentive to words,
selective, passionate, realistic, and dreamy—
something like a mixture
perfectly imperfect and real.
Politics makes your feet move
at speed,
running to the rhythm of the chants,
your dark-brown pupils widening,
at times resembling two olives,
dark in colour and pitted.
Your arms bristle,
your legs bristle,
from bottom to top,
from left to right.
In a life I never had,
I tell my university classmates
that my grandmother is an activist,
while her kidneys work perfectly
and there are no hospital visits,
no dialysis to endure.
You cling to the crowd,
taking the same pavement as everyone else,
because, for you, moving as a group
means being safe,
means feeling secure.
Crowds make you happy.
You feel less vulnerable,
although, paradoxically,
you have always been alone
and have always felt vulnerable.
In a life I never had,
you are sitting in the red armchair
while you watch me write this,
interrupting me with a shout
announcing a late lunch at 3 p.m.
In a life I never had,
we are still together.
Death has not come to visit us,
and the cry of a new country
resounds in your bones and mine.
I say goodnight to you,
and the next day
you are still here.
