TRANSLATING THINGS

by Marjorie Agosín

A RECENT TEENAGE IMMIGRANT MEDITATES ON WHAT SHE MISSES ABOUT HER HOMELAND.

At night my memory is sharp…. In the darkness of my room I translate the things of light. I observe certain rituals. The first is imagining the stars of my country. I name them out loud: the Three Marias, the Southern Cross, and of course Venus, which always accompanies me. She is my guardian angel, the lantern of dawn. After naming the stars, I caress the spines of my books. I’ve traveled with them, and they keep me company here so far away from home, in my loneliness. I like to have them close, I touch and open them, always, before I go to sleep. The language that I left behind calms me in blue. My last ritual is looking at my two shoes of different colors. My blue shoe calls me to the sea, that hoarse and booming sea that covered my face and my dreams. The other shoe is black, making me remember the winter of my new life here, the too-early darkness. Each of these shoes waits at the shore of my feet, reminding me of who I was and who I am. Always by my side, showing me the way. At night my memory is sharp, and I dream clearly.