The diary of my roots
They grew from my feet, from my arms, came out of my mouth, and my lips, scratched my cheeks, pulled my hair. Bare, wild, they wove their house in my lungs, my airways. Without water, they spread over my skin, in my eyes, even in my tongue. They were there, and yet no one could see them. These roots were mine, I found my home, and they held me up.
My great-great-grandmothers left Europe by boat, I don’t know which one, and in which year. But what I do know is that they never came back. Probably, a small part of each one stayed here. I imagine them as a weed, growing everywhere, and where I grow too now.
Maleza means weed, which isn’t wanted, which is pulled out but which grows again and again and never yields. A fake flower and yet, a real flower, too.