STORY OF A TENDER LIGHT

Your words, clear and clear in appearance, stun me. Maybe I'm the one who heard wrong, maybe you really said it, but I still can't believe it. I finally find the courage to ask you to repeat. "Four weeks" is the answer that, immediately, materializes on my temple like sweat that slides along the entire length of my profile, up to the neck, exhausting itself on the collar of my khaki shirt. You look down, but you look happy.
Now, listen to me because I'm not capable of being as good as you, smiling from the other end of the table, and not brave enough to repeat myself. Turn off. Put out the spark that burns in your belly, which in another eight months will ignite the projects we had of our lives reducing them to miserable ashes. Drown her in the bitter tears of a mother's ghost, let her not follow into this world. It is not to sadden you or to extinguish your hopes, but for your own good. "Mom" and "Dad" are not the nicknames for us, moody and distracted, who barely make ends meet. Would you say that my son could ever feel loved in my calloused hands and your soiled with paint? Would you say that his eyes are the same blue as your oil paints and his voice resembles the notes of my guitar? Would you ever say that we could be up to the task entrusted to us? I tremble for another split second when I realize I've already called him my son. I realize that I love him, out of nowhere, that I have given him a role in our future. Just as I would like to be able to see if it is as I imagined it, if it will derive order from chance, if it will make knowledge of our inexperience and of its own life as art, if light will flow from an incendiary spark.
"We will have a baby," I say in a faint voice that dies in my throat, suppressed by emotion.


MOTHER EARTH

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