My mother was the most beautiful mother. I know that everyone thinks that and that, by now, my psychoanalyst must be rubbing his hands, but, in my case, it was strictly true. There was never a more beautiful mother than my mother at the door of a nursery, a bar or a police station.
For coquetry I won't tell you your age. I look at her right now, sitting on my sofa in my dining room at home, her legs resting on my cushion on my favorite stool, watching her endless TV shows with Turkish men and women, and I think she's still the most beautiful mother but she's not should be here with me. Her beauty confuses me. August and no departure date. Gentlemen of Idealista, Habitaclia and Tecnocasa: please, wake up.
My mother was so beautiful that I always thought my father had been very lucky. I look like my father. Because of this resemblance, I try not to sit next to him on the couch after dark. She insists that I wear my deceased father's empire pajamas and T-shirts. I agreed one day – my mother is as beautiful as she is heavy – and I ended up in the emergency room with a gangrenous leg caused by a killer pant leg. My father did not have my size. Let's leave it that way.
How could my father charm a woman as beautiful and funny as my mother? Things of the heteropatriarchy. Had Dr. Strange met my mother and done the multiverse thing to him, he would be down on fluoxetine up to his eyeballs. However, despite the waste of the thousand lives that she could have had without my father, she never lost the joy of the conviction of having succeeded with that taxi driver boyfriend, hardworking and punctual, dancing and with an Elvis toupee. Everything fell apart like a house of cards, but nothing moved in their marriage. The punctuality of a boyfriend is not the same as that of a husband, and my father, who conquered my mother, beautiful among the beautiful, dancing Friday, Saturday and Sunday, stopped doing it the same day of his wedding becoming bolo waist bowling alley
Elvis toupee. I have written that and right away I get the brief and tight lesson of popular music with which my mother taught me between arguments of peplums, proverbs and songs in phonetic English. According to my mother, before Elvis nothing existed. Any. All black musicians copied him. The Beatles took advantage of the fact that he went to the military to treacherously gain his popularity but God – he always intervened in my mother's stories – sent them a Japanese woman and destroyed them. The obese Elvis allowed him to say that this happened a lot to very virile men like Marlon Brando. To those men, God – who sent Japanese women as well as processed foods – gave also fat children. Like Tom Jones. The fact that Elvis's daughter was thin or Tom Jones was not fat did not upset my mother's theory that only Marlon Brando fulfilled.
-Do you feel bad living with me, son...?
I think about answering, but what do you want me to tell you, my mother looks so pretty today with her blue television face that I'm lying to her.
