THE MEMORY
Childhood, pt. 1
It was ten years ago and also today,
when I first heard about the Tupamaros.
We were sat at “El Fogón,” meaning
“The Hearth,” on the third floor
of the Punta Carretas Shopping mall.
Me and my mother’s then-partner now-absent-father
(the only person in my life old enough to remember)
were talking, and he said:
do you want to know … / something about … / eh / well / this place …
I was a curious child. So I nodded.
this place … / it used to be a prison …
he said,
and made the old-world facade make sense,
the architecture next to the McDonald’s make sense
the towering gate in the middle make sense,
but of course he continued:
during the dictatorship … / I … / when I was … / a boy …
and he spoke about the spoons,
about the myths, about the shining
serpents, about everything here and
everything no longer here.
We sat next to a decorative archway, where the clean, pristine
white of The Hearth gave way to aging brick.
here … / this is the original … / building … / you see …
And I saw.
From behind the walls I swore I could hear
a distant knock.
10 … 8 … 2 … 5 … 15 … 17 … 22 …