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My father loved women, all of them, without exception
He used to say that women are like butterflies
they have dust in their head which makes them fly
but if a man steals it, they are stuck to the ground and become compost
- Daddy! Is mama a butterfly too? - - No, your mama has always been a frog -
He had met her when part of the land owned by the master had not been reclaimed
there were clouds of mosquitoes and big frogs inflating like hot air balloons
frogs don’t sing…
they are boring and repetitive just like my mother
she only knew few words her body was as graceful as stagnant water …
water which doesn’t move.
Numerous child births had left her with a pot belly
and her legs were slightly apart, curve outwards
her skin had always been opaque.
She was never a lover to my father, only a mother and partner
I don’t remember loving gestures, but I know he loved her
he adored her and respected her like the *** Mary
I know this because he never hit her
even when he came back drunk from the tavern, ***
with his two red cheeks and drops of sweat shining on his neck
from the imaginative games of his girlfriends.
There was no dialogue between my father and my mother
it was not necessary, they were used to silence
and to emptiness, not only of words.
- Your mother is a good woman! If poverty hadn’t stolen her desire and thoughts
she would have been the ideal wife -
But my mother was different, she was devoted only to duty
life to her was sacrifice …
she didn’t take delight in living, she felt resignation.
But I believe my father thought of her each time he told the story of a woman
he thought of her …
of her submission, of her inability to dream
the women of my land smell like Saint John roses
and they look like amphorae with their fists placed on their hips
custodians of ancestral liquids, their rhythm is the lunar one
priestesses of ancient beliefs where sons are the only riches
and the elderly represent the wisdom of peoples.
No one knows how they make love
because they don’t show off sensuality, they keep it hidden
but their long black wavy hair and the sound of their footsteps in the house
promise melodies of sirens, they indeed sing while they work away
they are always singing …
They are land and see, my women …
They are my daughters, my mother, my woman
all the women of the South who still sing, and sing …
and will never get tired of singing.