To Guadi and Carme for their tenderness, always.
In the '80s, my mother had what was called a "Polirubro" -which is not synonymous with Minimarket, if synonyms exist- where you could find everything from loose cookies to underwear, as well as Also, the map and the compass that the teacher had asked for. It had all started with a small window with a metal lattice. My father had built a bench that allowed the little ones to reach the window sill. From one day to the next, -for me it was like a magical act because I don't know when it happened- the window and the blind appeared. Later, the poster arrived with the calligraphic handwriting of Don Rosales, a lyricist who works for a well-known soft drink brand.
There were dates, like January 6, when the kiosk became Galería La Favorita. Days before, my mother put together a large stained glass window that she decorated with garlands and lights. I would spend several hours looking at what was put in each place, what combined, what was strategic, what of all the "expensive" things I had bought, it was convenient to see before entering. Every fifth of January, part of the business, he would go out the door and sunbathe all afternoon, on top of the plank or hanging from a rope that went from one end of the window to the other. Each thing had a little sign with the price in australes. That helped people to think and decide while my mom attended to someone else.
Those days, my grandfather would sit at the door, with the back of his chair forward as if to lock his body. The white tights were cut out by the bars and the knock, knock of his cane accompanied him with glances so that no one would take anything before paying or writing it down on credit. Meanwhile, with my younger sister we filled the baskets with bows and if the thing overflowed a lot, my mother gave me the privilege of wrapping. She cut a strip of paper for me to reach me and we stayed like that, like two saleswomen only separated by the tape rationer. During the day, we even dared to give the packages some shape, which the clientele received with great joy.
As a child, I never associated that many of the gifts that the Three Wise Men brought me or my friends from the block, were from my mom's business. For this, he had several stories that worked as an answer and they all ended up being true when the camels and their boys entered the house, making terrible messes with the grass and water. From time to time, questions such as: what did the Kings eat? or, how did the camels enter my house? They all had reliable answers: “The Kings bring food on their camels. That's why we don't leave food for them”; "camels either stay outside or become too elastic to get in." No answer was implausible, even the one that could be the most contrary and rare for biology itself. In my mother's house, they had taken care of building a firm and credible story that my neighbor across the street told that was happier than he was, in which nothing and nobody existed and everything was the parents. It is impossible in the life of any human being, of whatever age, for everything to be parents. Nothing and no one can be everything. We need to invent ourselves, imagine ourselves, create other realities, other beings that can also make us happy. In addition, the parents did not really have time to do what these magical beings did: read the letters, buy or make gifts and bring each one to whoever asked for it.
That explained my lack of concern or my lack of assumptions about the gifts that the Kings brought and the things my mom sold. The only real concern for my sister and I was whether we had behaved enough to get gifts. It should be noted that the previous days, we seemed more good. It was not something that someone informed the Kings! Once that condition was met, we had to write the letter. We made a lot of effort to make the handwriting clear because we knew that the Kings were older than we could calculate and we didn't want to give them more work than they had or that they would get the wrong gift. Once the letter was done, it was left on the tree and then my mom sent it to someone, who apparently gave it to the Three Kings.
Sometimes, a few days before, my mother would talk to the people who worked with them and who had some things but not others. Then, new toys appeared different from the ones we had asked for, cheaper. When faced with complaints, my mother always argued the same thing: “If you only bring what you want, it won't be enough to bring all the kids. And all the boys want to receive their gift. The argument worked because we were not tyrannical girls and it hurt us to think that if we abused asking, others would not have.
To this day, I receive Christmas and Three Kings gifts. I no longer write letters because I have a more direct line with these beings. To this day, I support the stories that help to believe. I like to confess to the children and also to the incredulous adults that all magical beings exist. Because that's the truth.
A few days ago, I went back to reading letters from Kings, written in Primary school handwriting. The words danced and took me back to that dear and true place: writing a letter, waiting for twelve o'clock for Santa Claus to appear or getting up to see what is in the shoes, is much more than a capitalist myth. It is the possibility of not defeating ourselves before a single reality. It is the possibility of other less destructive and more loving realities. Because Nothing is that: The emptiness that remains. It is like a despair that destroys this world.
Write a letter and wait for your response whether it be a word or a gift. Taking the time to write it down and leaving the envelope at the foot of the tree is founding a magical act. Those who write know how to wait and wait lovingly for their request to be heard. That is why it is written with hope in the delayed reading of the letter, sometimes wobbly and in capital letters, that asks the Kings or that he hopes that Santa Claus is thinking about the little hand he writes, so that when he distributes, he does not forget anyone .
We take care of the creative stories, the written letters that move us because The Nothingness is always attentive, waiting for us to become discouraged. That we stop taking care of dreams and desires, caressing them and taking them to sleep with us as if they were a little animal looking for shelter. Because the world can disappear or reappear, after all: Every part, every creature, belongs to the world of dreams and hopes of humanity. Therefore, there are no limits to Fantasy.
Each moment can be epiphanic. A letter can be a revelation. We just have to stop, listen, read and believe again.
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