Stories and News No. 608
This is the story of two little girls.
Or maybe one.
November 11, 2013.
My name is Beatriz Joy, in short Bea, and I was born today.
An image, mine, in my mother’s arms, has earned many front pages in major newspapers.
A miracle baby, they say.
That is for the typhoon, or in spite of this, they imply.
Yet I would have been anyway.
A miracle.
For my mother.
How do you call it other than an incredible miracle the whole show before, between magical metamorphosis of a body, and more than ever what follows, until the opening of the curtain named life.
I know what you think.
I'm biased.
It’s a personal matter, mine.
Well, what are we talking about if not something that belongs to me?
Nevertheless, all this attention warms my heart.
And heaven knows I need it, at this particular moment.
Especially from this time on, to be honest.
Because, as my grandmother said, it is when the fire is off that we really need the help.
When the house is no more, one thing at random.
However, I enjoy your eyes.
The tenderness in them draws my brave birth.
The emotion knowing the details of my arrival in the world.
I take everything and thank you.
I squeeze every gift in my small hands.
Are you still there?
Here, now try to imagine a November 11.
Another.
Over there, on the horizon, not far away.
Let's say in ten years.
November 11, 2023, to be precise.
I'm here now.
In your home, in your country, in one of your cities.
A foreigner.
A stranger, an immigrant and illegal one.
I'm still a miracle?
My life has still been the result of a wonder ?
I think so.
Actually, no.
I'm sure.
Please.
Do not forget it.
Do not forget me.
Do not forget.
What a miracle we have been all.
And it will be forever...
Also on Stories and News:
This is the story of two little girls.
Or maybe one.
November 11, 2013.
My name is Beatriz Joy, in short Bea, and I was born today.
An image, mine, in my mother’s arms, has earned many front pages in major newspapers.
A miracle baby, they say.
That is for the typhoon, or in spite of this, they imply.
Yet I would have been anyway.
A miracle.
For my mother.
How do you call it other than an incredible miracle the whole show before, between magical metamorphosis of a body, and more than ever what follows, until the opening of the curtain named life.
I know what you think.
I'm biased.
It’s a personal matter, mine.
Well, what are we talking about if not something that belongs to me?
Nevertheless, all this attention warms my heart.
And heaven knows I need it, at this particular moment.
Especially from this time on, to be honest.
Because, as my grandmother said, it is when the fire is off that we really need the help.
When the house is no more, one thing at random.
However, I enjoy your eyes.
The tenderness in them draws my brave birth.
The emotion knowing the details of my arrival in the world.
I take everything and thank you.
I squeeze every gift in my small hands.
Are you still there?
Here, now try to imagine a November 11.
Another.
Over there, on the horizon, not far away.
Let's say in ten years.
November 11, 2023, to be precise.
I'm here now.
In your home, in your country, in one of your cities.
A foreigner.
A stranger, an immigrant and illegal one.
I'm still a miracle?
My life has still been the result of a wonder ?
I think so.
Actually, no.
I'm sure.
Please.
Do not forget it.
Do not forget me.
Do not forget.
What a miracle we have been all.
And it will be forever...
Also on Stories and News: