Marica Campo

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They say, Xoana, Xoana, you who haven’t arrived yet, your slippery body still sailing the amniotic waters of my belly, that my great-great-grandmother Pepa, Pepa the Mole, got pregnant in Monterroso, during the fair in November. She never knew who’d sown the seed between her legs that would grow to be Rosa, Pérez her last name too, and with no other surname, the way it usually is with children who have nobody to call their father.

They never found out who that man was, the one who took advantage of the darkness – the one that was part of the night and the other that was in the young girl’s eyes – and attacked her so brutally, so silently. Still, when she was old, the Mole prayed every day for his soul and blessed him for having given her that daughter, who was the light of day for her eyes, extinguished by the pox in the distant days of childhood.

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