Where I went, you came with me. At the beginning, just the space of a room, sometimes an apartment when luck was good. You always came in the suitcases, in the bags and the boxes where I moved my own organs, the brown little bird of dreams and this very matter of mine because you were and are my home. It took me a lifetime to be able to carry you with me like a hump or a shell, like claws that dig burrows. It is the transvestite gift of knowing that outside the body everything is alien, everything is frontier, which made me able to ride on my back the place where I could feel safe, where to hide in times of hunting and where to make love in winter. scourge. I made my house out of inherited knickknacks, borrowed furniture, and ornaments that one day got old. I sewed the curtains and repaired the damage. Raising him from the shit where I spent my days was as costly, as it was costly to set up the father's house, that father's house and that mother of mine with block walls and bricked up windows. The same sweat and the same tears and also the unique and immense happiness of being able to make a house that would be mine, a tiny house, without money, without ambition, without land. A mobile home where to serve tea to friends from time to time, because it is known that out there everything is death, everything is a knife that cuts your neck, everything stinks. You came with me from poverty to poverty, with the scream of rotten flesh like the one who wrote this letter to you. Each piece of furniture rescued from the neighbors who left a chair, a mattress or a shelf on the street to put the spices on. Every thing inherited from my own mother who passed on to me the knowledge of her ancestors, the brown and Indian women of my family. All the transvestite that oozes from my dresses, the colors that I see when I close my eyes, the sadness that vanished like those first passions that seemed eternal. You have come out of my hands and surrounded my life with the beauty of your prism, the silence of your plants and the privilege where you and I are, at the end of time, watching every morning the unrepeatable sunrise that macerates in the east. We are together, my house, for so many lives guarding the joy of one and the other, in the justice of not knowing where you end up and where I end, as if you yourself were the wounded transvestite that inhabits you. Inside you I was always safe, even when the fever left me like a corpse and the pain faced my teeth, I was always happy with you, my beloved house, temple where I can make this name every day, this unexpected creature that I am in the order of the quick and the dead. I thank you, for being the hug that I imagined in bitter days, for myself and for whoever comes to visit me.
Camila Sosa Villada is the author of Las malas (Tusquets).