My Life in Argentina and Beyond

A year ago today I received an email informing me that Chiquito had been taken ill. I was far away and could not fly back to Argentina. Now, 4 days before the first anniversary of his death, I can’t help but feel that I failed my dog. I didn’t mean to, and when I talked to the people taking care of him in Buenos Aires, I pushed them to do everything they could for him. It was a long distance sort of push. I still have a feeling of guilt. I don’t know if it’ll ever go away. I only hope that he, in Doggie Heaven, can forgive me.

Tomorrow, December 5th, would have been my Tia’s birthday. Never mind how old she would have been. My Tia is still alive; I have never forgotten her. I can see her now wearing her black and white hounds tooth wool skirt and her lime green 100% acrylic cardigan, the one with the big white buttons. I see her waiting on the corner of our neighbor in Greater Buenos Aires. Her right hand is touching her chin and the tiny wrinkles around her eyes are more pronounced. A neighbor walks by and they talk. The neighbor is like family and she’s keeping my aunt company until I come back from my errand. It is probably a mild day in early October, spring in Argentina. My Tia looks down at her black leather moccasin shoes. I have to polish them after lunch, she tells the neighbor. She sees me before I see her. What kept you so long? she asks me. I kiss her on the cheek first, and then I greet the neighbor. Nothing, I shrug, blushing. I dare not mention that I have just run into the man I love; she wouldn’t approve. We walk the half block to our house. My Tia invites the neighbor up, but she declines. My Tia opens the white door and we go in. This is so clear to me after all these years that it might as well have happened yesterday or today.

I feel tense and my left side—my arm and my neck—hurt. My mother, when we were children in Buenos Aires, must have felt the same way. She must have felt trapped in a beautiful neighborhood with a life she didn’t want. She never intended to be a housewife or a mother of 3 kids. Last night, when I couldn’t buy the things I had the money to buy, I shook just like she used to shake. She wanted to be free and do her own thing.

I don’t want to be poor and deny myself a simple pleasure like yogurt and/or oatmeal. I couldn’t vent with Lauchita. I held her tight and she comforted me in her kitty way. Her body was warm and understanding in my arms. My mother, when she was frustrated, let off steam in a way that hurt me.

hursday, June 25, 2009: I know is not politically correct. Here it goes: Though I do not approve of adultery, I admire South Carolina's Governor. He travelled to another country, risked his political career, marriage and family for a woman. Had it been just sex, he could have hired someone, like others before him. Were I his wife, I would be start divorce proceedings, but I am not. Yes, maybe he should have admitted it from the beginning, but what politician would? Eugenia Renskoff