Xkam rujite' Vicente

Öj tz’uyül chwäch ri kaxa. Najin ye’ok, najin ye’el ri winaqi’ pa jay.

Nuwäch nojnäq rik’in sib’, nutz’am nojnäq rik’in ruxla’ pom. K’o b’ey ninna jun itzel uxla’, kojol ruxla’ pom.

Nqayab’ej.

Rachajil ri kaminäq ndok richin yojruq’ejela’. Man ndoq’ ta chik wakami. Yan q’axnäq oxi’ ik’, oxi’ ik’ tzaqät pa ruxikin ruch’at, tz’uyül warnäq ri 90 q’ij qa. Rija’ nukw’aj rukiy pa ruk’u’x, najin nuchajij ri kaminäq chuqa’ taq rume’al wakami.

Nqayab’ej chik. Tew ri ya’, b’uyül ri kaxlawey. Ral ri kaminäq ndok, nuq’etej Katy. Najin ndoq’, ndoq’ chik rija’. “Gracias, doctora,” ncha, ndel ël.

Nqayab’ej chik.

Nqak’oxaj jun oq’ej. (Ay Dios, rute’ rujite’ Vicente! Majani ri’j ta ri kaminäq.)

“¿Por qué esto le pasó a mi hija? ¿Por qué se murió? ¿Por qué nos dejó? ¡Se ha ido de su casa! ¡Yo no sabía que le iba a pasar algo así a mi hija! La matan…Ayyyyy! ¡Mi hija! ¿Por qué? Señor, ¿por qué?”

Qitzij. Atyux roma?

Npe raxtew chuwij. Npe ya’ pa nuwäch. Man roma ta ri tew ya’, man roma ta ri sib’.

Atyux roma? Man wetaman ta. Rik’in jub’a junan ri kitzolintzij ri taq k’utunïk chik:

Atyux roma xb’anatäj ri k’ayewal pa b’ey pa ox’i ik’ qa? Atyux roma ri aq’omanela’ man xkiq’alajirisaj ta ri situación k’a xapon ri doctora Katy rik’in rupalaj mo’s? Atyux roma xkiya’ jun aq’om chupam betametasona kichin rusokotajik roma ri ch’at? Atyux roma Vicente xojroyoj taq xek’oje pa b’ey, xetzolin pe, richin xuk’utuj achike xekowin xkib’an richin ri itzel uxla’, roma ri man xkiya’ ta formaldehida ke la Roosevelt? Atyux roma man xqatamaj ta si xojek’ulun pa jay, roma ri majun gasolina pa ruch’ich’ Lencho roma ri jotol rajal ronojel wakami?

Röj yojb’a ël ri lunes petenäq. Pero ri k’aslem xtub’an seguir wawe. Röj yojb’a ël, pero ri kamïk manaq.

Kan ke ri, ri kaslem? Pa jaru q’ij xtiq’ax ri uxla’?

...


[Us, seated before the casket. People are entering and exiting the house.

My eyes are filled with smoke, my nostrils are filled with the scent of incense. Sometimes I smell an ugly smell, between wafts of incense.

We wait.

The widower enters to greet us. He is not crying anymore. He’s already spent three months, three months to the day, by her bed, sleeping sitting up for the past 90 days. He carries his pain in his heart, now he is caring for his late wife and for his daughters.

We wait a bit more. The soda is cold, the bread is soft. The daughter enters and hugs Kate. She is crying. She cries more. “Thank you, doctora” she says and steps out.

We wait a bit more.

We hear weeping. (Oh God, it is Vicente’s late mother-in-law’s mother! She was young, yet.)

“Why did this happen to my daughter? Why did she die? Why did she leave us? She has left her house! I did not know that something like this would happen to my daughter! They kill her…Ohhhhh! My dauther! Why? Lord, why?”

True. Why?

A chill comes over me. Water comes to my eyes. Not because of the cold soda, not because of the smoke.

Why? I don’t know. Perhaps these questions have similar answers:

Why did the accident on the highway three months ago happen? Why did the doctors not clear up the situation until doctora Katy arrived with her cara de gringa? Why did they apply an ointment containing betamethasone for her bedsores? Why did Vicente call us when they were on the highway, coming back with the body, to ask what they could do for the smell, because they had not embalmed her with formaldehyde at Roosevelt? Why did we not know whether we would make it home, because the tank in Lencho’s car was empty because everything is expensive nowadays?

We are leaving this coming Monday. But life will go on here. We will leave, but death will not.

Is that just the way life is? In how many days will the smell pass?]