It happened the third night after our arrival at the town of Macaravita, Colombia. That night they organized a gala (event where everyone dresses fancy and follow several stupid protocols). It happened while I was walking around the place, a little girl about 7 years old came up to me and asked me if I was a poet. When I answered affirmatively she asked me to read her a poem so I gave her one of my poem brochures. She started reading it instantly with a voice so sweet that I was astonished. Doris (that is her name) asked me if she could read outloud with the poets and I told her I would certainly find out if she could. She smiled staring at the id card I had around my neck. Once the reading started, two kids from the town were called to read and I remembered my promise to Doris. I told the organiser there was a third child that wanted to read and went down from the stage to find her. I didnt find her where she intercepted me or anywhere around and went back empty handed.
Poetry reading
The next day we had a conference from one of the guest poets about "I dont know what from the generation of the '27". As the classroom where the conference was taking place started getting hot because of the zinc roof and the small windows, my eyelids became heavy with sleep. Then Doris showed up from nowhere and sat next to me. I asked her where she had gone last night, "my mother pulled me away" - was the only answer.
During that whole day Doris never parted from me and I never parted from her. She came with us to a neighbouring finca and ate everything except the meat, "I dont eat meat or chicken"-she said.
When someone asked her about her parents, there was no answer. A neighbour told me that sometimes the grandmother took care of her, "they are very poor"- he said. The emeralds in her eyes and the tiny pearl teeth in her smile told me something different. "My teeth are wearing out- she said randomly- thats why I stopped eating sugary food".
Somehow I was conscious of the fact we knew each other from a distant time, since ever.
The emeralds in her eyes
On the way back from the finca we went by an old cemetery and got in. "Here is where my baby brother was buried, in this grave or the next one. I dont remember very well because it was so long ago".
With deference she walked between the mounds where crosses and tumbstones tilted pushed by the pass of time. She then pointed towards a tree covered by mossy hairs "look, how beautifull!". I told her she could take them down and use them as necklaces, but the idea didnt seem to amuse her, "dont take them out from the tree!" -her voice seemed to grow old.
When we arrived at the house where I was being hosted with another three poetesses, Doris found a water gun and we had a little war in the inner patio of the house until the other tenants told her to stop, completely ignoring my presence and responsability being the grown up of the two. Another admonishment was aimed to the dog that came in with her. Tuli was her name and she seemed to follow Dori around everywhere she went. When we went by her house in the way to my quarters Tuli came at me barking. "She never barks at me, she must be protecting me because you are a stranger"- Doris said- "She always barks when they hit me". There was no answer when I asked her if they hit her often. Doris seemed to live in her own world of smiles and sweet dreams, the darkness of everyday life sliding off her heart.
The transcription artist
At my place she accepted the sheets of paper and the pencils i offered her to paint but ended up transcribing one of the poems from my brochure. When she asked me to give her one of the Id cards we wore around our necks I gave her mine, she stared at it and gave it back, "It has your name Luis Carlos, I want one with my name on it. I want to be a poet too". She said the same to Alonso, the event organizer and Id card deliverer. Then she transcribed one of my argentinian friend's poems on a napkin and gave it to Alonso during supper. Alonso looked at it without understanding, busy in conversations with different poets. Finally, when the dining room was empty he took out the napkin and started to read the blurred words. I regret having clarified the situation to him. Just imagine his surprise when reading a really complex poem from a 7 year old girl. Alonso later told me that since day one Doris had confessed her wish of becoming a poetess, and that was why she needed the Poet Id we all had. After the early supper we sent back to the hosting house and Doris challenged me to several tictactoe matches. She seemed to prefer a form of tie where both players won by completing their lines one after the other, than the common way of one sided victory.
I couldn´t think of anything else I could do to help her, I think maybe she didnt need my help at all. We had been best friends for a day.
I lifted her up once after lunch and it seemed to resonate deeply in her. During the whole day she would come at me with her arms wide open, I imagined forgotten times of inexperienced legs and absent caresses. In those moments she looked so tiny and fragile. I would lift her up, hold her in my arms and swore from my most inner self that everything would be alright.
Our goodbye was rather quick, my roommate Rosa, a very kind grandmother asked her about her parents and offered to take her home. When she came back, Rosa told us grieved that at Doris's home nobody had asked for her, and that they didnt even greet her when she arrived.
I pray to the god that gave sense to all of creation, to the god that is nothing but love, to give her strengh to successfully go through this multicolored experience we call life.
Poetry reading and street art in Macaravita, Colombia
