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By Mercedes Moresco


My daughter listens to reggaeton with her friends while they get ready in the bathroom at home. They are loud and shouty. They are seventeen years old and life is just beginning. The outings, the kids, the freedom that they begin to feel throughout their bodies that grow alongside them. Plus, they're on vacation. They do not go to school. They go to the beach. They have the first car. A world opens up at their feet. Their clothes are becoming smaller and smaller, or they buy them smaller. They are young.


From my desk I lock myself in to write this article for the newspaper, and I try to concentrate despite the lilting rhythm of the music that invades the house, and although I feel like silencing them, I don't. I like that life that is breathed when they are here. It amuses me to watch them come and go, go up or down the stairs, scream with excitement because someone uploaded a photo to Tik Tok or because who knows who replied to a message. And although I'm also on vacation and could enjoy it lying in a pastry shop reading Mastretta's book, I already know that there will be time later, when they leave.


Because it is so. Now they are and soon they are not. The house will regain its peace. His silence. And with them some life also goes out the door. Nobody interrupts my thoughts to tell me Ma, nobody asks me what's to eat, nobody needs me for anything. And that, to tell the truth, is also enjoyed. As you can see, I suffer from this mania of seeing the good side of everything, a mania that sometimes surprises me myself. 


They're leaving. They come down the stairs and greet me bye ma, see you later (the friends are at home so much that I'm almost their Ma too). And I'm already alone. She alone with me and this computer that until now has written about three hundred unsifted words. Just as they leave the brain, they pass through the keyboard and appear on the screen, fast and black, small images that mean a text, or give meaning to the text. We would have to see what comes first.


In principle there is me. And that counts. And my vacations. And a time to do what I want to do. Without thinking about children, or a husband, or even the dog. In Myself. 


One says vacation and imagines kids, family, friends. Beach or mountain. Leisure. And it's not always easy to choose what to do with your free time. That, in part, comes when your children grow up and are no longer so attentive to you. When the plan is without the parents. When they grow up.


So here I am, thinking about what to do with my free time. If I write, if I exercise, if I paint or sing. Yes, I dance. And the secret is not to impose anything on me. In letting the desire flow and when it does, go sailing.


Mercedes Soledad Moresco

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Mercedes Moresco

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