La Marcha (The March)A Story by Jessica M. LundquistJust a short reflection on a very vivid memory I carried back with me from Buenos Aires - enjoy! Comments welcome.La Marcha
The revolution
came to me muffled at first, sounding from five stories below outside a closed
patio door. The rhythmic BOOM! Boom! BOOM! Boom! beckoned me out to the
balcony. No sooner had I slid the screen aside than the drums, in honest and
brutal clarity, attacked me entirely. Pounding in my ears, echoing in my brain,
vibrating up my shins, their bursts scattered into every particle of frigid air
and settled into every crevice of brick. I had emerged from the box of the
apartment into a world of shouted symphony, of tribal roar. There
must have been a thousand marching, clustered and organized, eyes on fire and
voices projected in song. The masses, each led by a single amplified voice,
were separated into distinct ballads of equality and great, shining banners: CONFEDERACI"N
GENERAL DEL TRABAJO UNI"N
SINDICAL ARGENTINA CONFEDERACI"N OBRERA ARGENTINA Forward they marched: a colony of whites and morochos, of mothers and children, of
leaders, of pot-bangers, of tambourine-thumpers " the working Argentina "
toward their lady Cristina along La Avenida de Mayo. Though the wintry August air drew my arms across my chest, I stayed rooted to the balcony’s edge and leaned out as far as the railing allowed. Transfixed, I watched, I absorbed, I dissolved into this union march. I
snapped moments through a slim Nikon until I forfeited the effort to capture a
magic elusive. I recorded a segment of blaring war cry that I later discovered
rendered choppy and incoherent. I watched until my eyes pooled with tears in
combat against the cold. © 2014 Jessica M. Lundquist |
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Added on February 2, 2014 Last Updated on February 2, 2014 |