A Prayer

by Leo Boix

On a warm Sunday afternoon,
                           on her 45th birthday, to be exact,
she kissed one of the walls
                           of our family house in Quilmes
and slowly walked out
                           (someone was aiding her)
through the entrance door
                           to the car parked outside,
to be taken away from us,
                           to a whitewashed hospital
on the leafy Avenida Caseros,
                           from which she would never
come back and as she was leaving
                           she turned around and said to us,
small children: Recen por mí.
                           And we did, mother. We did.