Se murió hoy. Salió impune. Y no me importa na
I guess it means it’s all over. I guess it’s all finally over. I guess that means we can finally return to how things were before everything started. But I was eighteen then, and I turned fifty-one this year. I guess that option’s out. I guess none of us can return to how it used to be.
I can’t believe he died…aweonao. It’s sick.
Jorge called to invite Amalia and me to the Alameda with his family. He says he wants the twins to know the truth. He must have sensed my scowl through the phone because he told me, “Lore, todo esto es que queda al tiro, para enseñar la verdad.” I told him that the crowds undoubtedly mourning outside of Hospital Militar are probably telling themselves the same thing.
Maybe I’m the only one who doesn’t know what to make of today. The only one who doesn’t know what to make of the past 33 years. I remember Papá gave me a Minolta when we found out I was accepted to La Chile. Mamá never told me how much it cost, or how long they must have been saving for it, but Amalia told me Papá had to take off work to go Santiago to buy it for me. I remember they all told me that this camera was my future. I believed them.
I remember how heartbroken I was when I couldn’t escape that foto of Pinocho and the other leaders of the junta, the one where he’s sitting in front of them with his arms crossed. I remember it was everywhere for so long. I felt betrayed by whomever took that photo. I knew I would never sink so low and ‘betray my art’. I didn’t know that Pinochet wouldn’t give me the choice.
There’s a finished roll of film in that camera, I have no plans to develop it.
Pinochet died today and everything is the same. I’m having such trouble writing these words down. I keep taking breaks, closing my eyes and concentrating on my breathing. Todo esto es que queda al tiro, para inhalar, y exhalar.
I just thought there would be more.