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Canción para Marisa

Su ausencia trastorna mi universo. En los árboles crecen plumas, la fruta se amarga, el avestruz ladra, la tos es bienvenida, el hipopótamo repta y el mar no importa. Tampoco la fama ruin de los humanos. Su ausencia, es decir lo mucho que la extraño así pase un rato breve sin sentirla, sin olerla, sin abrazarla, sin vivirla, es un dolor incómodo, un libro que aburre, el bostezo de las aulas y los matrimonios. Se acaban mis certezas, que de por sí son pocas y comunes, si su sonrisa no está a mi lado, o sus zapatos de tacón alto, o su fuerza de hembra buena asentada en la tierra inmisericorde y fría.

La necesito conmigo como quien ve una estrella y le pide deseos benevolentes pero inconcebibles. Como quien besa por primera vez. Como quien se descubre adorador de sus pies, de sus atuendos de moda y de sus ojos para desafiar las tormentas y los desaliños con que se disfraza eso que llamamos vida. Como quien se desarma ante la aurora boreal de su voz, de sus misterios, de su bailar salsa y merengue y de sus encantos sin maquillaje. Digo su nombre y amanece. Lo áspero de la lucha cotidiana por el pan se anula con su presencia, que es una caricia de manos, sentimientos y de voces. Digo ternura y mis pensamientos la anidan. Digo mujer, o cielo, o abrigo, y ella sobresale, inteligente y bella, completa y contundente.

Da lata, es cierto, hace guerras y explosiones que mi ser no entiende. Su estirpe se remonta al furor de la luna convertida en soldadera y ama de casa, en vampiresa y matriarcado. No importa. Yo que he surcado mares, yo que he acompañado al salmón de regreso a Ítaca, yo que he llorado mis desdichas de humano, yo que algo sé del sinsentido que rodea a la creación de todo lo que es y no es, yo que he visto morir a gente cercana, yo que he tenido sueños que no he llevado a cabo, yo que he pasado estragos por volar al norte y cuidar de mi sangre, yo que he intuido la respuesta a los secretos de estar vivo, yo que he tratado de escribir libros y fracasado a pesar de mis múltiples triunfos, claros y rotundos, yo que he sabido de las niñas mujeriles, yo que he tanteado aquí y allá por ser feliz o por lo menos parecer alegre, reconozco en ella al buen puerto tras la borrasca, la palabra de aliento cuando se necesita, la respuesta a mis dudas de adolescente y a las de adulto, la presencia materna que protege mi sino de explorador curioso de la existencia precaria, el jueves que es el principio y fin de mi semana, el fulgor de la carne cuando está imantada a la mía, la voluntad de ser entre tanto escombro y desconsuelo, el presentimiento de que, en efecto, puede haber algo más allá, tras el negro cielo estrellado o el desconcierto eterno de mis días terrenales.

La necesito conmigo. Su ausencia me provoca aullidos de loco abrazado a un árbol, celos de hombre seguro de sí mismo, una inquietud que ni mis cantinas calman. No estoy con ella y mi universo se trastorna.



Espero que hayas reparado en el hecho de que Marisa es lo menos importante en todo lo que escribí.

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