It started to rain. Quite abruptly, fat droplets loomed from the sky and were gone as quickly as they had come. She said "Back home, after a strong rain, sometimes the sun comes out the next day and the mountains are snowy. It's beautiful."

Ellie took a sip of his wine. He grimaced at the grey above and barely glancing at her, he said, "Back home? You are home."

primera noche

Quiero a mi papá.

Last Afternoon

She watches the dog from the kitchen window, smiling slightly at the knowledge of his escape. “El amigo flaco” as Gina has taken to calling him, has eluded all gates and fences once more and sits on the incline of grass taking in the view. Hit once again, with the sudden realization of impending finality she cocks her head, like Chango the dog, and listens. The only noise is the frantic humming of the refrigerator. The rest is absolute silence. She likes to pretend that she can hear her sister and Maca upstairs sleeping, listen to the slow and steady movement of their breathing.

Something stirs within her. She cannot say exactly what; it is neither pinprick nor throb, but there it is, steady, growing, calling for movement. No, that’s not right. It is not movement but rather the lack of it. Something calls for stillness. For observation. She sees the dog take off, long limbs galloping down the hill, and envies him. She takes her time and looks at the infinity in details within the only house in this long skinny country she can truly call a home.

And there it is.

Something odd, something she had not felt for years, from when she was a child. The forementioned stirring—it is the desire for prayer. More embarrassed than she would care to admit, she carefully creaks her way upstairs, checks on the quiet silohuettes of her sister and sister-in-law and goes into her room. She looks out the window and thinks of her father. The contents of her thoughts are infinite and beyond words. With the awkardness that comes with a long-forgotten exercise, she kneels. Her knees creak, her body recognizes. She closes her eyes and prays.

(Mid-word panic, her eyelids flutter, she has forgotten the words. She has decided that she will not get up until she remembers them and simply murmurs words in a jumble until they don’t make sense and suddenly, like a child dominating a bicycle, they’re back and she’s off.  Her mouth is suddenly filled with hot saliva. She is crying hard, silently.

Something she has mastered quite well lately. 

Something she is hoping she will unlearn soon enough.)

Noting the differences

The changes are subtle.

There has been a shift at meals, tectonic plates of sorts, in which my brother has taken my father's usual place at the head of the table (one of the few old-fashioned things he lived by) and we have been re-shuffled to figure out ours.

When asked for an emergency contact number on the bus, I used to give my father's, the only phone number I know. In my stubborn denial, the times I have traveled after he passed away, I have given my own. Basically, if I my bus were to crash, my phone would ring and ring to no avail. This time, for my final trip, I looked up my sister's and gave it, accidentally memorized it, and now have 10 days left to use it.

I could go on.

During my last day working as a teacher, the pathetic fallacy seemed like a joke and there came a point were I felt ridiculed by the divine (were I to believe in that), or at least by nature. The children were sweet, the staff were gracious and I cried. Not necessarily in that order, but almost. Walking home, laden with gifts and a sweaty wad of emotions, I sat down on a bench for a minute because I was overwhelmed with him, the reminder of him. The way the light hit the trees, the beauty and the simplicity of everything around me. I felt grateful like I know he always felt grateful and I could not write to him to let him know.
Of how much of him is in me.
Of how I've never felt like his daughter more strongly than I do now.
Of how proud I am of that.

Jugando a Empezar

Con tanta mudanza, tanto embalar y desembalar he encontrado un par de croqueras. Algunas son de antaño, otras son de hace menos tiempo y es extraña la decisión que una toma, a veces ocupando menos de la mitad de una croquera, en cambiarla. Simplemente porque una parte de uno claramente no puede estar en el mismo libro que otra. Porque la otra es obsoleta, o se quiere olvidar. Quién sabe. http://petitpizzicato.blogspot.com es mi antigua croquera, cuaderno que quise mucho, pero que ya llegó a su fin, como de alguna manera, esa vida también llegó a su fin. Es tiempo de seguir con otro.

Se le contará al ciberespacio lo que no se le puede contar al hombre.