Audio: Read, in English, by the translator, and, in the original Basque, by the author.
Our grandmother worked at the cannery.
And our mother and aunts.
They were workers, not housewives.
Or were that, too.
I liked that smell they brought home
when they came in from work.
That smell of fish, perspiration, and brine.
Though they all hated it.
The smell that’s so hard to wash off and forget.
The women at our house worked in the cannery
and, afterward, at home.
They cleaned anchovies at the kitchen table.
While I played around underneath it.
If I was lucky they’d give me a taste.
Even sandwiches were anchovy ones or tuna fish.
I preferred that to sausage or chocolate.
Even though my friends laughed at me.
Those were some different times.
Back then the women sang in the canneries,
and their bosses gave them leave
if they had to breastfeed the baby.
The women took their breaks together.
In their work clothes, leaning against the stone wall
taking the sun or smoking, eyes closed.
They had a peaceful moment that way,
and forgot about work,
husbands and children.
Today, quite a few years later,
I close my eyes, too,
wanting to find that peaceful moment of theirs.
I open my mouth, expectantly maybe,
for a woman’s hand to give me the gift
of an anchovy fillet.
The gift arrived over the kitchen table.
While I was playing underneath it.
Alone, because they had to work.
(Translated, from the Basque, by Elizabeth Macklin.)
