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Nació un día de tormentas y desde entonces tiene pánico de los relámpagos. Aunque lo que gusta de verdad es ver a los otros observándola mientras su concierto de gritos abre el telón de las tormentas. 
A ella le debo el gusto por el teatro. La primera vez que vio una obra como espectadora fue en mi etapa de estudiante. Iba a todos mis exámenes de actuación. Desde entonces no se pierde una. 
Ha vivido toda su vida en el campo, cuida de sus abuelos, atiende la casa y cría pollos y carneros. Le gusta decir que es feliz, pero en el fondo de su mirada yo siento que algo ha faltado a lo largo de su vida. Hace poco asumí con certeza que eso que ha venido faltando para hacerla completamente feliz es el teatro. 
Cuando era una adolescente de apenas 16 años, se enamoró de mi padre, salió embarazada de mi y de mi hermano gemelo. Mi padre era un hombre casado y esto solo lo supo unos meses antes de que yo naciera. Lo supo de golpe, sin medias tintas. Me imagino su dolor, su angustia en aquel momento. Pero mi abuela me cuenta que nunca la vio llorar por ese incidente. Cuando nacimos, ella nos bautizó con sus dos apellidos y nunca más tuvo un reclamo a mi padre, ni un requiebro ni una queja. Sin embargo, siempre nos mantuvo al tanto de él hasta que lo conocimos a la edad de cinco años.
Un día me dijo que que sí, que había sufrido mucho, pero en silencio. Que aunque los días fueran grises, ella sacaba una sonrisa de dónde no había y mostraba al mundo toda la felicidad posible. "Nunca le des a este barrio miserable el gusto de verte llorar", me dijo y en el fondo de sus ojos volví a ver la tristeza. 

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A mi madre le encanta llamar la atención, volverse el centro de las fiestas y las reuniones. Su voz es la más alti sonante. Y cuando se viste para salir, insiste en ropas coloridas. Si se trata de una fiesta, es la que más baila y la que cuando menos lo esperas, puede lanzar chistes que provocan la carcajada general. 
Es quien de pronto representa una escena de alguna ocurrencia. Para ello, convoca a sus amigas vecinas, a sus amigos vecinos y hasta algún curioso desconocido.
El día de los padres me pasó esta foto de la portada. Vestida como un hombre, maquillada como un hombre, fumando un habano digno de un hombre. Yo me reí de su chiste en cuanto abrí el chat. Y luego amplié la imagen, hice zoom sobre sus ojos y vi allá en fondo, el objetivo de su discurso. 
No era simplemente una foto de mi madre vestida como un hombre. En esa imagen, mi madre viste como mi padre. No me lo dijo, no lo hizo evidente, pero soy un buen lector. 
En esa imagen me decía, desde si silencio, que ella ha sido todo a la vez en mi vida: Mi madre, mi padre, mi amiga y mi amigo.

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She was born on a day of thunderstorms and since then she has been terrified of lightning. Although what she really likes is to see the others watching her while her concert of screams opens the curtain of the storms.
I owe my love for theater to her. The first time she saw a play as a spectator was when I was a student. She went to all my acting exams. Since then she has never missed one.
She has lived all her life in the countryside, takes care of her grandparents, tends to the house and raises chickens and rams. She likes to say that she is happy, but deep down in her eyes I feel that something has been missing throughout her life. I recently assumed with certainty that what has been missing to make her completely happy is the theater.
When she was a teenager, barely 16 years old, she fell in love with my father, became pregnant with me and my twin brother. My father was a married man and he only found this out a few months before I was born. He knew all at once, without half measures. I can imagine his pain, his anguish at the time. But my grandmother tells me that she never saw her cry over that incident. When we were born, she baptized us with her two surnames and never again had a complaint to my father, neither a complaint nor a complaint. However, she always kept us aware of him until we met him at the age of five.
One day he told me that yes, he had suffered a lot, but in silence. That even though the days were gray, she would pull a smile from where there was none and show the world as much happiness as possible. "Never give this miserable neighborhood the pleasure of seeing you cry," she told me and in the depths of her eyes I saw sadness again.

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My mother loves to draw attention to herself, to become the center of parties and gatherings. Her voice is the loudest. And when she dresses to go out, she insists on colorful clothes. If it is a party, she is the one who dances the most and who, when you least expect it, can crack jokes that provoke general laughter.
She is the one who suddenly represents a scene of some witticism. For this, she summons her neighbor friends, her neighbor friends and even some curious stranger.
On Father's Day she passed me this cover photo. Dressed like a man, made up like a man, smoking a cigar worthy of a man. I laughed at her joke as soon as I opened the chat. And then I enlarged the image, zoomed in on her eyes and saw there in the background, the target of her speech.
It wasn't just a picture of my mother dressed as a man. In that picture, my mother dressed like my father. She didn't tell me, she didn't make it obvious, but I'm a good reader.
In that picture she was telling me, from her silence, that she has been everything at once in my life: my mother, my father, my friend and my friend.
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