Balbela Arzaguet

This work is not about loss, but about the meanings embedded in the scenarios of a relationship that almost-was-not.

I were my mother's sixth pregnancy. Preceded by 5 spontaneous abortions and succeeded by one more. A month before my birth, my grandfather, my grandmother, my aunt and my cousin came by surprise to celebrate my mother's birthday.

Avoiding a truck, the car rolled over. My grandmother and my aunt were thrown out of the car. They both died. My grandfather lost his wife and his daughter. My mother, seven months pregnant, lost her mother and sister.

They did not expect us to survive, neither mine grandad nor me. Not to the accident, but to the mourning. Him, they thought would die of sadness; me, they thought would make company to my predecessors. They were wrong. He lived to be my grandfather for 21 years, and at 101 years old, die one day after my birthday.

This work is not about loss, but about the meanings embedded in the scenarios of a relationship that almost-was-not. It is a eulogy you to every exchange that was so close to not happening, but it did. It is a record of the landscapes I could signify, the nation I learned to love, and the memories I could build, not only because I survived, but because we survived. Because we shared an existence. Together.