The message.

• Author: Poniatowska, Elena
• Position: Short story

I CAME TO SEE YOU, Martin, and you are not here. I am sitting on the front step of your house, leaning against your door, and I think that in some place in the city, as if by a sound wave that passes through the air, you should know that I am here. This is your little garden; the mimosa is stretching and children passing by pull its closest branches. I see scattered around on the ground around the wall some very straight and formal flowers that have leaves like swords. They are navy blue and look like soldiers. They are very important, very honest. You are also a soldier. You are marching for your life one, two; one, two . . . Your whole garden is solid; it is like you with a strength that inspires confidence.

Here I am against the wall of your house, the way I sometimes lean against your back. The sun also strikes the windowpanes and because it is already late, it is gradually fading. The red-hot sun has warmed your honeysuckle, and its fragrance becomes even more penetrating. It is twilight. The day is drawing to a close. Your neighbor passes by. I don't know if she sees me. She is going to water her little garden. I remember that she brings you noodle soup when you are sick, and that her daughter gives you injections . . . I think about you very deliberately, as if I drew you inside of me and you remained drawn there. I would like to be sure that I am going to see you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow and always in an uninterrupted chain of days; that I will be able to look at you slowly, even though I know every little corner of your face; that nothing between us has been provisional or accidental.

I am leaning over a piece of paper, and I am writing all this to you, and I think that now, in some city block where you may be walking in a hurry in your usual decisive way you are on one of those streets where I always imagine you to be; on the corner of Donceles and Cinco de Febrero or Venusiano Carranza Street, seated on one of those monotonous gray benches which are broken only by the crowd of people hurrying to take the bus; you must know within yourself that I am waiting for you.

I came only to tell you that I love you, and because you are not here, I am writing to you. I can hardly write now...