I crossed a dark and empty city after a stubborn drizzle. I crossed the city well after midnight, determined to arrive at the wake during the two hours conceded by the government to say goodbye to Laura Pollán.
I sang the national anthem there and controlled my emotions during the enormous silence that followed the coffin out between her companions in white, and those so much like me, who were there despite the haste and the late hour; I’m not a person for ceremonies, but I brushed the coffin in passing with my side as a way of saying goodbye. That was all.
I returned home on foot. I remembered the events of September 26 in front of her house, that act of repudiation organized down to the gnat’s eyebrow, with even the Cuban flag used against satellites and the too curious, but I remember above all the women who threateningly cornered Laura against the wall of her house while the conga roared: “machete, they’re small.” Sleep soundly while you can, women of the mob, because the dead are becoming ever more obstreperous.
October 17 2011
