Esther Cuesta
Return
When shall I return
to the land that I consider mine?
When will the asphalt of the streets of Guayaquil
feel again my impatient pulse?
When will the leaves, the salt, and I
dance on the renovated pavement of
El Malecón 2000?
They say this new malecón
is the largest proof of the modern Guayaquil, where
I may no longer feel
the moist wood of the piers,
I may no longer break the sky
stepping in a zillion puddles,
I may no longer see
lovers, drunk with desire
liberating themselves behind Bolívar and San Martín,
while a viejo verde, an old man
a little further away
is helping himself in his hunger.
If you ask me what I miss of
Guayaquil
it's not the pipones de camisa y corbata
calling themselves municipal clerks,
milking a Bristol-Meyer factory worker,
who can barely bring milk to his mouse-infested house.
It's not being sent to an upper-class school
Where the janitor's daughter and I were the ones
who never knew what it feels to have a classmate at home.
It's not the four-month strikes by professors
because they have not received the last twelve checks
for the last six months.
or the muddy paths after the nightly rains
There is no one specific thing.
It's not its guayaco Spanish, my
zona roja neighborhood,
that the police hardly knew,
because-by the way-they were afraid
my neighbors would take their shoes away.
It's not the cebiche, or Guayaquil's eternal summer
Not because they are not dear to me
But because what is dearest is immeasurable.
Perhaps it's the sense of belonging
my feet stepping on my soil,
breathing Guayaquileñan air,
soaked in carbon monoxide, scattered garbage,
devoured by touchy-noisy flies
alloyed with the aroma of food prepared on those
dirty sidewalks,
when garlic and onions tango over fire.
Would it be my thirst for less
transparent,
less processed, Ecuadorian water
perhaps a little tastier,
perhaps a little dirtier?
I think it's more the picking out of
madres from the rice,
placing tiny little stones, seeds, the husky rice
in that cracked small mate,
selling empty bottles and old newspapers
to the bare chested-buyer,
my eyes always following his tanned skin.
He would pass by my house, singing and whistling,
on his rusted and warped bicycle,
Buying fresh peaches and the bogey,
black seeded-reinaclaudias,
From the generous woman in a poncho,
who knocked on my door
and always gave me credit
Without keeping a ledger.
Her memory never failed her.
What do you, Guayaquil, remember of
me?
When the day of my return comes,
I hope you recognize me
I hope I recognize you
If we don't, then let's meet again
As if it were the first time I was born in you.
