|Rune Guneriussen (Noruega, 1977)|
So about an hour later we are in the taxi
shooting along empty country roads towards town.
The April light is clear as an alarm.
As we pass them it gives a sudden sense of every object
existing in space on its own shadow.
I wish I could carry this clarity with me
into the hospital where distinctions tend to flatten and coalesce.
I wish I had been nicer to him before he got crazy.
These are my two wishes.
It is hard to find the beginning of dementia.
I remember a night about ten years ago
when I was talking to him on the telephone.
It was a Sunday night in winter.
I heard his sentences filling up with fear.
He would start a sentence about weather, lose his way, start
It made me furious to hear him floundering
my tall proud father, former World War II navigator!
It made me merciless.
I stood on the edge of the conversation,
watching him thrash about for cues,
and it came to me like a slow avalanche
that he had no idea who he was talking to.
Much colder today I guess. . . .
his voice pressed into the silence and broke off,
snow falling on it.
There was a long pause while snow covered us both.
Well I won’t keep you,
he said with a sudden desperate cheer as if sighting land.
I’ll say goodnight now,
I won’t run up your bill. Goodbye.
Goodbye. Who are you?
I said into the dial tone.
Anne Carson (Toronto, Canadá, 1950)
de Glass, Irony and God, New Directions Publishing, 1995
Versión Patricio Grinberg
para leer MÁS