In by Lucía on March 2, 2011 at 1:23 am
To have others believe in you, and to know that others believe in you: this is a gift.
To be afforded space for honesty, for wholeness, and for self-full-ness: this is love.
To hold hands, high-five, lock eyes: this is well.
To rendez-vous with a pillow, to flop into bed: this is rest.
To sit in the sun, to give you a hug: this is life.
To hear the words: it could be worse; to think, simply: “It” could be bad – This Is.
Because even the things that are bad are just non-good.
And that – well,
That is good, too.
In by Lucía on February 16, 2011 at 9:52 pm
I am walking out in the rain, and I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again. It’s been three months. I know you’re busy. But I’ll keep calling for as long as you keep waiting to call me back. I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at the old-school receiver that’s somehow attaching me to you via this strange, metal cord. I’m still thunderstruck that I can reach you across a continent – still thunderstruck that “reaching you” means hearing your recorded voice roll back to me through the wires here in the rain.
In by Lucía on February 1, 2011 at 6:24 pm
It got quiet, the way it sometimes got when you were allowed to play in your own room as a child, and your parent could excusably put you to the periphery to take care of an important call. But this time, truly, no other is present as the light crossing in from the windows grows more dim, and the shadows in the room slowly invert through shades of gray. The air seems to move with the light, becoming perhaps heavier and more still, but the sense of play, of malleability remains, a book resting on the floor by your side.
In by Lucía on January 19, 2011 at 3:51 am
These kids tell me they’re tired when I ask what’s up, and it doesn’t make sense that just two weeks after three weeks of break, you’ve already worn yourself down — it’s a down that I don’t go to anymore, and as the day comes to a close and we walk and we walk and we walk, tracing the outlines of the places that fill our days, we walk in emptiness and move with the shadows until I return to the empty space that has been given me, to make an impossible decision about which pair are The Best sweats.
In by Lucía on December 24, 2010 at 4:09 pm
It feels like burning lungs and flying legs, moving toward the sunburned horizons of the Southwest, and the clarity of standing above the clouds halfway up Everest. I blink as the cold of California glints off of leafless trees, bland highways, unfamiliar and disturbing overbuilding, and San Jose comes closer. It feels like the restfulness of rising and setting alongside the sun, of perfect wellness and staying up all night to catch up. It feels like the profound cool of swimming beneath waterfalls. It simply feels like this, like life, like flawless movement and perfect flexibility. Feels like feeling One.
In by Lucía on December 24, 2010 at 4:09 pm
You’re the only person I trust to double the speed limit down winding mountain roads, and you took your eyes off the road to ask what it feels like. For a moment, I am quiet, slowly moving to conjure words on a pristine mind. It feels quiet at 5:30am, watching the sunrise before classes. It feels like the tingle of spiced Moroccan coffee watching the silhouettes of minarets. It feels like lying in sunlight of Place des Vosges with French tinkling into my ears. It feels like the beach in New Jersey, and returning to familiarity and our chosen families.
In by Lucía on December 18, 2010 at 9:20 am
It’s been like being six years old again, lying in bed awake in the many hopes enveloped by anticipation on Christmas Eve or the night before our birthdays. But we’re no longer small children, and these days are not known to our world as different than yesterdays or tomorrows, excepting their uniquely quantified names: twelve-eighteen-twenty-ten. But they are. These nights we stay up with the anticipation of simply being alive, laying in bed wide awake simply because we exist, knowing that what we are living no longer differs from the things that we can dream. Eyes open, not falling asleep.
In by Lucía on December 3, 2010 at 12:44 am
These tears are falling from my eyes the way buttons fall off of my clothes, barely holding to their final threads and losing their purpose as they tumble and twist down to the floor. These tears are falling from my eyes the way you used to do a back 1.5 straight off of the three-meter board, diving and twirling and then disappearing into a bottomless pool as the ripples fell into stillness. They’re falling around me like the day it rained into the hollows of my bones, and nothing could have moved me out of the weight of that water.
In by Lucía on December 3, 2010 at 12:37 am
We traveled together for a few weeks:
he moved through countries
the way I slid into sheets
at night, smooth and calm. But
he was ready for a certain
rest that I never was able to experience
together with him. He was
a history major; I was learning
about all the new places, while he
was greeting them like
old, familiar friends. They had
never spoken the same
language, but never needed to.
Each new voice was an aria to his ears,
a melody floating
across his eyes, a gentle smile
on his lips as
he talked to the strangers.
In by Lucía on November 30, 2010 at 9:09 pm
The flowers at the table were beginning to wilt. And even though the dishes weren’t piling up in the sink, the kitchen was always unbalanced, the overflowing drying rack preventing the handful of dishes on the counter and in the sink from being washed. Wires between computer speakers, a power cord, the wall scuttled across the table, books heaped in mismatched groups around the table, and Geoff’s desperate eyes stared hopelessly at the screen. The world around him was turning into a complexity of zeros and ones: one – music coming out of the speakers; zero – couldn’t remember his last meal.