I thought the sadness came from reading Pizarnik, but the voice reminded me that it was an ancestral, ancient, very old feeling that always comes with the first Christmas lights.

Hearing the garbage cart pass by, I left the table, stews, guests and quickly went downstairs to give a small tip.

Santa is watching…

“God paid him”, he said to me and like a drill penetrated my brain, leaving a tight echo in me, multiplied and persistent, impudent: God pay him/God pay him/God pay him…

“God has rewarded you”, that old and humble phrase that the poor people of my country still use to say “thank you”. A strong thank you that hurts, that stings, that hurts, because it is a thank you that, whoever says it, feels undeserved. Why is he giving it to me if I don’t deserve it?, is a question that seems to come implicitly with that phrase, with Yaraví’s tone when he says it, with his head bowed when he receives it.

Still in total shock and almost speechless, I asked him: – Can you wait to bring him a candy?

— Of course, sir.

I came back with the candy wrappers and he gave me a new “God bless you, Merry Christmas, sir.”

What was left of me returned to the table, to a cold and tasteless stew, to the guests, my grandson, to my pieces disguised as a smile.

Then I remembered my old sadness, the one that I’m sure Dad sowed by not letting me take out the Italian doll that Father Pino had given me, or the giant red and white bear, or the Barbie, or the ball, or the ice skates. “Not all children got presents, don’t bring them out,” insisted Christmas after Christmas. And so my conscience was born.

Every week the garbage man passes through our streets, so that we live well, but it has to be Christmas before I think of thanking him for his work. The same happens with the guards who watch day and night to make us feel safe; and a number of people we should thank every day, but we don’t.

To make everything transparent

The hardest thing is that my sadness or solidarity is worth nothing, nothing is in my hands except honest work. I wonder if politicians, bankers, those beings with fat minds who will not have enough life to spend their wealth, will feel at least “a little trash in their spirit” (Mafalda/Quino) or after hearing the phrase lapidary will return to waste, fun and feasting. He will come back stiff and fine as Frog’s son, Rin Rin the tadpole.

What hurts the most is the realization that I won’t have enough life to see this country without malnourished children, without violent men and women, without so much death in the streets. No, what will it do me if healthcare and education are the last wheel in the car.

As a society we will continue to give crumbs and hear “God has rewarded him” like hearing rain. We will continue to cram shopping centers and supermarkets without any conscience. We will continue to believe that the poor are poor by choice, we will look down upon them as part of a landscape filled with lights, songs and credit card snaps. (OR)