She was going to be called Gea and she would come to relieve Teo of the burden of being the only child in the house. With her I might once again have prepared pureed malanga, boiled bottles in the night and washed loads of diapers. But thinking better of it, Gea remained the desire of another child that I did not have. I looked ahead twenty years, with the same housing problems of today and with two married children who would bring their spouses to live in our apartment. At first, with the three marriages, we would try to maintain harmony, but the fights would inevitably come.
Our house would be like so many, where several generations live and a suppressed battle takes place every day. The refrigerator would be divided into three zones and the couples would make love quietly, faced with the proximity of the other beds. The grandchildren would come to share the bedroom with the grandparents—in this case my husband and me—and make them feel like they were already a nuisance to the young people. The children would spend a good part of the time in the corridor or in the street, because of the little space available at home. They would become teenagers and look for partners, new potential occupants for the house already bursting at the seams.
If, before the hurricanes Gustav and Ike, my generation and that of Teo had to wait forty years or more to have a house, now the period has surpassed the span of a human life. Together with the roofing tiles and the windows that the winds took, they also sent flying our dreams of having our own roof. Where there are no resources to replace what the victims had and lost, how long will the wait be for those who had nothing.
Without sentimentality Gea has vanished totally from my life, now I know that we will have no space for her.