25 November: we inaugurate the Red Bench in the Observatory

If I don’t answer your calls tomorrow, mum.
If I don’t tell you I won’t be back for dinner.
If tomorrow, the taxi does not appear.

Maybe I’m wrapped in hotel sheets, on a street or in a black bag
Maybe I’m in a suitcase or lost on the beach.

Don’t be afraid, mother, if you see that I have been stabbed.
Don’t scream when you see that they dragged me by the hair.
Dear mother, don’t cry if you find out that they impaled me.

They’ll tell you it was me, that I didn’t scream enough, that it was the way I was dressed, the alcohol in my blood.
They’ll tell you it was right, that I was alone.
That my psychopath ex had reasons, that I was unfaithful, that I was a whore.
They will tell you that I lived, mother, that I dared to fly very high in a world without air.

I swear to you, mother, I died fighting.
I swear to you, my dear mother, I screamed as loudly as I flew high.

You’ll remember me, mum, you’ll know I ruined it when you face all the women screaming my name.
Because I know, mum, you won’t stop.

But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tie up my sister.
Don’t lock up my cousins, don’t lock up your nieces.
It’s not your fault, mum, it wasn’t even mine.
It’s them, it will always be them.

Fight for your wings, those wings that cut me off.
Fight for them, so that they can be free to fly higher than me.
Fight so they can scream louder than me.
So that they can live without fear, mother, just like I lived.

Mum, don’t cry my ashes.
If tomorrow it’s me, if I don’t come back tomorrow, mother, destroy everything.
If it’s my turn tomorrow, I want to be the last.

{Cristina Torres-Cáceres — If I wlii not come tomorrow}