Near the house there is a huge tower that has a tree planted on the top floor, on the terrace. It is not tall like the ones you see on the sidewalks, but it is a tree with roots, a trunk and many green, yellow or brown leaves, depending on the season. A tree in which any bird could make a nest: take thin branches one by one to set up a warm space to rest, where to stop worrying. I saw him recently, on the way home from work. And I saw it by chance. I was checking that the windows of the bus were open because for me, and unfortunately for me, the coronavirus it is not yet part of the past and then I looked up and there it was, beautiful, open. made me think of loneliness, into something soft but powerful, like a waterfall that makes music when it falls. Yes, that was it. the tree up there was a symphony.
And it also made me think of my Russian literature teacher., a woman as I remember with big teeth, eyes like pieces of fresh fruit, freckles on her cheeks and always a small gesture of rebellion, some strands of her hair cut unevenly, some painted purple. She a lover of poetry. In class she used to sit on the table and tell us the same thing over and over again: that we look up when we walk through Buenos Aires, that we read the city vertically and we raised our eyes to understand the layers of time, the construction in sections, in pieces of eras that were embedded without rhythm to say something to those who took the trouble. Who knows what.
So I, still in the group, linked that tree with my memory as a student and I believed that the time had come to pay attention, once again, this time to a person who is no longer part of my life and it’s that to me this abide by is something so given, a pillar of what little I could achieve so far, an embarrassment that I can’t get rid of. So I looked up, though afraid of tripping anywhere; I looked up, although I don’t believe in religions nor do I want to get my hopes up; I looked for a long time above what I expected and saw that one of the restaurants that I like the most on that boulevard that I love has a terrace full of plants that suit it very well. I saw that the round street, which flush with the facade of a video store that no longer exists, upstairs is alive: it is an event hall for young people with faith. I saw that the parking lot where we left the car has nine floors, that there are still people who hang chandeliers from the ceilings (the kind that my grandmother had and that my mother keeps for me in an attic), that the church located in the end of the park has a tower not with one but with two bells that I did not hear, that the green and purple plant that I put on the balcony, the one that grew from a shoot that a friend stole from another friend’s bar, grew too much and got into my downstairs neighbor’s, who should prune it.
A few days ago a friend of my boyfriend went to see an apartment for rent near home. He lives in the southern suburbs, where we used to live, but he wants to leave and I understand. When he told me that he was staying On the 28th floor, the first thing I thought and the first thing I said was that under no circumstances would I move so high. They taught me that you have to be between the third and fifth floors, that perhaps the seventh is accepted, but as an exception. Doubtfully. Anything above is a danger I can’t define because I never got close. Because I didn’t know how to be pretentious. Because moving on this level served me. Now that I see the tree I think: how big is that everything that I missedwho would I be if I had encouraged myself to move away from the ground a little.