Hello, dear friends of this house of all #holoslotus, where you can reach out and open your heart wide.
Today I woke up in good spirits, and friend
's initiative hit me like the fresh morning air, as it's about responding to the call of our own conscience.
We live in a constant struggle for survival, some more self-sacrificing than others, but no one is safe from fighting battles within themselves.
I'll tell an anecdote from when I was only six years old. I don't know if it was because the event repeatedly stuck in my memory or because it's not true that children forget everything, but I'll reproduce what happened with surprising clarity.
My mother conceived her pregnancy at a later age. I arrived in the family at a different generation. I played with my nephews and not with my siblings, which would be logical.
The nieces were one and two years younger than me, and my nephew was three. The latter lived with us, and my story goes with him.
My mother sewed well. We were poor, and fabrics cost pennies. To help my father with the family finances, she made everyone's wardrobe. Sometimes she sewed by hand, and other times she walked under the midday sun, carrying her sewing kit, several blocks to a cousin's house who lent her the sewing machine.
My father looked at her with compassionate eyes and vowed to buy her one. He did so as soon as he could earn some extra money. For Mother's Day, he brought her one, a brand-new one.
From the moment that jewel entered the house, it became my mother's concern. No one touched it, as they might hurt it! The main restriction was for the little ones: two meters of distance, especially the boy. I couldn't walk.
Nothing sparks interest more than the forbidden, and I have an instinct to investigate built into my DNA.
Everyone was dazzled by the gleaming varnished furniture or the gold lettering on the metal parts, and even how well it worked! What attracted me was the contents of the drawers, which my mother jealously locked with a small key she carried in her apron pocket.
Taking advantage of the fact that my mother was washing clothes in the backyard, I got down from the chair where they sat me, crawled over to the machine, and with a small snail's motion, tried to open the drawer.
It turned out to be fragile, because with the strength of a six-year-old, the lock came completely off. Of course, I didn't want to break it! The worst part was that at that moment, I heard my mother's voice returning to the living room.
I picked up the snail and placed it in my nephew's hands, saying, "I'll give it to you," and returned as quickly as I could to my chair.
When my mother entered, the first thing she did was look at her typewriter to check its condition.
Blushing with anger, she observed the condition of the lock, and I felt fear at the damning and inevitable question, "Which of the two was it?" I knew the culprit wouldn't escape the punishment, so without a second thought, I blamed the child who received the punishment that was due.
I didn't receive it physically, but it pained my conscience for many years. It shaped my life, and when no one was looking, I punished myself. I couldn't forgive myself for the pained and astonished eyes of the child I loved so much at receiving a punishment that wasn't his. But if I confessed the truth, my situation would be worse, because the damage caused by the typewriter was compounded by the fact that I had lied and forced my mother to be unfair. I decided to remain silent.
I grew up guiltily watching and loving my nephew. When I was seventeen, I sat my mother and him down in front of me and confessed.
I cried so much. They, who loved me, laughed and comforted me, "But how are you going to cry like that, you're stupid?" They showed me that it didn't matter as much as I gave it for so long, but I was washing my soul.
A big hug to those who made it to the end with me.
❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️.❤️
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Hola queridos amigos de esta casa de todos #holoslotus. dónde se puede llegar y abrir el corazón de par en par.
Hoy desperté de buen animo y la iniciativa de la amiga
Vivimos en una constante lucha por la supervivencia unos más sacrificados que otros pero nadie se salva de librar las batallas consigo mismo.
Contaré una anécdota de cuando tenía solo seis años, no sé si porque el hecho lo tuve reiteradamente en mi memoria o porque no es real que los niños olviden todo, reproduzco lo sucedido con una nitidez sorprendente.
El embarazo de mi, madre lo concibió con una edad avanzada, llgué a la familia desfasada de generación, jugué con mis sobrinos y no con mis hermanos, que seria lo logico;
las sobrinas tenían un año y dos menos que yo y mi sobrino tres, este último vivía con nosotros y con él va mi historia.
Mi madre cosía bien, éramos pobres y las telas valían centavos, para ayudar a mi padre
con la economía familiar, ella confeccionaba el vestuario de todos; algunas veces cosía a mano y otras caminando bajo el sol de medio día, con el bulto de costuras varias cuadras hasta la casa de una prima que le prestaba la máquina de coser.
Mi padre la veía con ojos de piedad y juró comprarle una , lo hizo apenas pudo ganar un dinero extra, para el día de las madres, se la trajo, una de estreno.
Desde que aquella joya entro a la casa se convirtió en el desasosiego de mi madre, potque nadie la tocara pues la podían dañar! La principal restricción era para los pequeños , dos metros de distancia, sobre todo el niño, yo no podía caminar .
No hay cosa que despierte más el interés que lo prohibido y yo tengo instinto de indagar incorporado a mi ADN.
A todos les deslumbraba el mueble reluciente de barniz o los letreros dorados de la parte metálica ¡Y hasta lo bien que funcionaba! A mí, lo que me atraía era el contenido de las gavetas que celosamente mi madre cerraba con una pequeña llave que llevaba en el bolsillo del delantal.
Aprovechando que mi mamá lavaba en el patio trasero , bajé del sillón donde me sentaban, me acerqué a la maquina gateando y con un pequeño caracol intenté abrir la gaveta.
Resultó frágil, pues con la fuerza de una niña de seis años salió totalmente desprendida la cerradura.¡Claro, no quería romperla! Lo peor de todo fue que en ese momento se sintió la voz de mi madre regresando a la sala.
Cogí el caracol y se lo coloqué a mi sobrino en sus manos y le dije __ te lo regalo__ y regresé lo más rápido que pude a mi sillón.
Al entrar mi madre lo primero que hizo fue mirar su máquina para comprobar su estado de conservación.
Roja de ira observó la situación de la cerradura y sentí miedo ante la pregunta sentenciosa e inevitable Cuál de los dos fue.Yo sabía que el culpable no escaparía de la chancleta, por eso sin pensarlo dos veces culpé al niño que recibió el castigo que me tocaba.
No lo recibí físicamente pero me dolió por muchos años en la conciencia, marco mi vida y cuando nadie me veía me castigaba, no conseguía perdonarme los ojitos de dolor y asombro del niño que tanto quería al recibir un castigo que no era suyo, pero si confesaba la verdad lo mío sería peor pues al estrago de la máquina se sumaba que había mentido y obligado a mi madre a ser injusta, decidí callar.
Crecí mirando y queriendo a mi sobrino con culpa. Cuando tenía diecisiete años senté a mi madre y a él frente a mi y confesé.
Lloré muchísimo, ellos que me amaban, se reían y me consolaban Pero como vas a llorar así, serás boba mostrándome que eso no tenía la importancia que le di tanto tiempo, pero yo estaba lavando mi alma.
Un fuerte abrazo para los que llegaron al final conmigo.
❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️.❤️
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