Indocumentada

 

Me preguntaban si conocía a aquella mujer no tan joven. Su mirada insistente, como si dependiera de mi reconocimiento para salvarse, para tener vida en este mundo.

Había en ella, en sus ojos, luces de recuerdos ya inexistentes; me miraba como si penetrara esta vestimenta de tiempo, como si penetrara mis luces más sombrías por dentro. Engatusamientos, supuse, embelecos de mujer que no parpadea.

No obstante, hubiera querido decir que sí. Pero me arriesgaba. Al fin he dicho que no, y fue el gran pesar: sus ojos se humedecieron, reflejaban la mayor tristeza, la más pura desesperanza. Y desapareció en el hueco oscuro de la noche. Quise pero no alcancé siquiera a consolarla.    

Luego he sabido era mi hermana, según Mamá me ha confesado (aquel aborto  tardío y bochornoso).

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Undocumented  

 They asked if I knew the woman, not so young; something about her face, what exactly, I couldn’t tell. Her insistent eyes, as if she depended on my recognition to save herself, to have a life in this world.

Again, there was something in her, in her eyes, like glimmers of memories not unfamiliar; she looked at me as if piercing this new look of the times, these smart clothes, as if penetrating into my darker lights inside. Crafty lady, I told myself, deceits of a woman who doesn’t blink.

Even so, I wanted to say yes. But I was taking a risk, too much of a risk. I finally said no, and it was the greatest sorrow: her eyes filled with tears, reflecting the greatest sadness, pure hopelessness.  I wanted to comfort her, but it was too late. She disappeared into the dark hole of the night, as a reflection in a mirror.

Later I’ve known the truth. She was my sister, according to Mom’s confession (that late and shameful abortion).