Marta May (1880-1967)

It would seem that she was merely a spectator to the story I’m telling, that she wasn’t so important, that she wasn’t the main character of the story, the mother weaver. It would seem.

She wasn’t the one wearing dresses made of imported fabric, the one who studied in Paris, the one who blindly led the family business. She didn’t steal anything, although she never had much. And she never wanted more. Throughout her life she never had one legal paper. She never celebrated her birthday. She never wrote a sentence. She never started a family. Never, never. It would seem.

She was, at the same time, everything. From that morning in April when she entered the house of the Novelo Puerto family, it was she who, with the same rhythm used to rock the hammock of little Amparo, calmed all the people in my story with a gentle movement, one that followed the beating of her heart.