Has looked at that again graffitithe same wall so full of history in front of the truck’s stop, he has seen it so many times, he has looked over it, and it has made him reflect on some occasions and get angry on other occasions. She has seen it from oceanic distances, from landscapes distant, from their nostalgia. The truck stop on Solidaridad Street, the street that gives its name to the neighborhood in the south of the city, where people live in simple clothes, with worn-out shoes, people with sunburned skin, men and women with dreams in ruins. And there are the same trees so old that it surprises him that they have not forgotten how to bloom and there is also that wall on which someone saw fit to capture that phrase, that image, that prophecy; so artistic, so everyday, to give a little beauty to that abandoned place, that mural poetry to perhaps give some peace and hope in uncertain times to the girls, mothers, women who were waiting for the bus to go to school, to work , blurred drawings of flowering women that so accurately portray the essence of that sector of the city, the personality of its inhabitants… and that phrase, that phrase We were all going to be queens; She knows that the advertising of a 24-hour Pharmacy advertisement erased the name of the poet “Gabriela Mistral”, the author of the phrase, of the poem, whom she knows because she once wrote it down in her notebook and went to the school library. and he looked for the poem and tried to read it, to understand it and it was impossible, or he didn’t want to understand it like he didn’t want to understand so many other things in life. Today, she feels caught in a commotion of old emotions.
She has seen her entire life pass in that unchanging, timeless place. The same images and colors of a past frozen in time. Nothing has happened, nothing has changed, they did not go from a past to a future, everything remains the same; Only she changed, she got used to that rustic life. She remembers that in the days of her adolescence she always heard her older sister shout at her mother, deny the life she was given and what she was not given, cursing the fact that, because she was born poor, she had to work after school. attend school, a bitter and endless demand and she remembered how she had done the same. She remembered her rebellion, the anger that always lived in her veins, that courage that never went away, that’s how her anger walked through life and that’s why she left school while pregnant, her school days were over and she went to live with her boyfriend, lived the life she believed one should live at seventeen years of age. And she recognized herself now, tired, violently tired of a life of sorrows and disappointments that had marked her temples, the blows of her life had taught her to resist, to defend herself, to endure. She had learned to master a gray routine with which she tried to support her daughter, to apologize in every tone and to remain silent, to fill herself with silence and to stay away from her obstinate thoughts. She decided not to wait any longer for that husband who she swore would return very soon for them, whom she did not miss, neither him nor the beatings of her, and she accumulated a long and silent resentment towards men; She also learned to understand her mother, to appease the pain that she lived in the deepest part of her being. And now she is there waiting at the bus stop to go to work at that department store like every day, just like every day and that day with her heart pounding in her throat she understands that graffiti, We were all going to be queens, we were going first person verbal of an imperfect and cruel past that simply never came.
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