When That Day Comes

The day you return, you won't be the same.
Your restlessness like a river overflowing will be gone;
a faint trace of the past will shine in your eyes,
but I'll be more than happy, with your tiny glow,
lost within the immensity, like a missing earring.

♦

When that day comes, you'll arrive in the morning,
to tell me that story of imprisoned love,
of your bitterness without a ring, of your crying in exile.
You'll tell me about those crickets that ate your belly,
that you broke forever… like shattered glass.

♦

You'll keep your memories like an unearthed trunk,
like folded newspapers in a wooden drawer.
You'll tell me about your soldiers, that you lived through a war
and when night lights up, you'll sleep beside me,
so I can paint your body with a color that shelters you.

♦

When that day comes, you won't be the same,
but I don't care about that anymore.

♦

What worries me is that you'll give up…
that on your way to our home a footpath will defeat you,
that the day you come looking for me my door won't open anymore,
that your back will tire of carrying so many suitcases,
that your heart will faint climbing the mountain range.

♦

And so I've always waited for you… with the balcony swept,
fixing if I can, the soaked anthills,
remembering "what's gone," when you said "I'm staying,"
when you left crying and never came back.

♦

But I still remember, as I have for so many years,
when I shouted in a whisper that I'd go out looking for you,
because I know you heard me, even though you couldn't see me anymore,
I'm afraid to wait for you and that you'll never arrive.

♦

(Edgar Landívar, 2006)