© 2013 Ediciones Traspiés
I recognized my jacket by its plaid elbow patches. It took some time to realize that the homeless man had found those garments at the local parish, where my wife donated our old clothing with charitable regularity.
Another day it was my sweatshirt with Naranjito on it. The big, smiling orange with a soccer ball appeared grotesque on that unfortunate man. The whole matter began to bother me when several acquaintances claimed to have seen me in the trashcans at the market.
I often happened upon him in the park while walking the dog. From afar, he seemed an annoying imitation of an ungainly and unsuccessful “me.” That apparition of my failure left me in disagreeable spirits. Several times I remained there, attempting to draw closer, to take an interest in his story. Perhaps his family had left him on account of unpardonable weaknesses, or he had lost it all in one stroke of luck: an illness, an eviction... Maybe he was just another victim of the devastating crisis that was destroying everything in its path.
It was a bothersome revelation when one afternoon he appeared in the square with my sky-blue Bermuda shorts, and so I approached him. Since then I can hardly put together what happened. That haze of unconnected images: defenseless cigarette butts, a vacant window, bits of memories like mounds of old clothing...
In the shelter, no one wants to tell me where my family is or why those strange people now live in my house. I only have these ridiculous Bermuda shorts and futureless days in which to relinquish myself to the solitude of walks through the park, and those distant, sympathetic looks.