Carta de un vagabundo

Abstract

From anywhere in the world. No start date, no end date either.

Addressed to all those interested in reading its contents.
I was born on any given day. Perhaps at the break of dawn; when the birds sing their melodies, giving thanks to the Creator. It could also have been at noon, when the scorching sun stamped my body with my first mark. Perhaps on a dark, cold night, where the nocturnal ice pierces the bones and the involuntary clicking of teeth is heard. I lean toward the latter possibility, since my entire future has been one of darkness, and I have always groped my way. My mother: she must have been a servant. A being without you, without a vote. A zero to the left of cruel society. Submissive all the time, to follow the orders of a master, for a crust of bread left over on the table; Or a few coins she received in exchange for washing away the sins of humanity. Her hands were bruised from scrubbing on the hard stone, from dawn until the veil of night fell. She must have had a cruel and ruthless husband, who only waited for her at home so she could prepare meals and attend to him as he deserved; for he was "the master of the house."
During Holy Week, as a Catholic, she fulfilled the precept of confession, kneeling before the confessor; she would lay down her troubles and divulge her secrets. She waited for a voice of encouragement to continue carrying the heavy cross of marriage. But only God's representative on earth repeated to her: You must bear that cross, "until death do you part." As she left that sacred place, her head covered with a ragged black scarf, the color of her fate, she must have meditated on the way to her refuge; perhaps on one of those sad journeys, she was able to pass through the door to that unknown dimension. She must have died, as outcasts die because of cruel society. No one must have shed a last tear; the same one that flows from the depths of the soul when a loved one breathes their last. Her remains are lost, as her existence was lost. Not even a cross of rough wood was placed on her grave.
That's why, with my slow walk, I briefly abandon the bustle of the city and, entering any cemetery, the sepulchral solitude doesn't reject me if I bend my aching body on the damp grass.
I cry inconsolably when I begin my monologue. I cry when I wake from that dream, which I was sleeping on a couch. My lips were kissed by a glass of aged wine. You, dear mother, extended your hands to pull me from the abyss. With a kiss on my cheek, you wished me a happy night and a beautiful dawn. But I awake from such a beautiful dream, without a bed, without a blanket, and a sharp stone at my head.

I will return tomorrow to continue dreaming; because only in dreaming do I find a moment of solace.
After this beautiful delirium, I slowly sit up, as I am in no hurry. I see a bloodhound approaching, and standing right in front of me, it fixes its gaze and wags its tail as if soliciting a crust of bread. I stretch out my hand and, taking its, say: we are even, comrade. I have nothing that hunger can quench, not even a drop of potion to quench my thirst.
Since we both have the same purpose: to search for remains of rotten food, so as not to die of starvation, let us set out in search of them.
As we set off, a few meters from our destination, the bags were overflowing from their containers, filled with contents that the fortunate call "garbage" and we, the needy, call manna.
My companion, endowed with better abilities than mine, hastened his walk and, with his well-developed sense of smell, found the white bread, and I enjoyed a succulent breakfast. I was late arriving, and hoping to find something I could eat, I reopened the packages one by one, without finding anything edible. I then remembered that, under similar conditions, the slowest person always loses.

I continued walking, and as I turned the corner, a kind heart offered me a cup of coffee with bread; for which, in the name of the eternal, I thanked him. The lady having granted me permission to sit on her sidewalk, I sipped the precious liquid, and sip after sip, I sensed its delicious aroma. As I savored the fascinating beverage, I understood that divine nature, He gives to each person what they deserve: in the appropriate place and at the appointed time.

Rising with greater physical strength and in high spirits, I searched everywhere for my companion, but I couldn't find him. I thought I had a friend to dispel my sorrows; but he had only been a casual friend. Then I remembered the American writer Corey Ford, when he said: "A man, with a little training, can one day become a friend to a dog!"
If we all walk the same path in life, why do only a few reach the finish line? Why do others only make it halfway? And p