Floreciendo

It’s beautiful when there’s not power in home. We are all the family together. Everything is dark but so there are little candles everywhere. We talk about our memories when we were more younger. Remembering, like today, when my sister climbed the trees to get us some guayabas. We talk with our relatives and we sit on our legs and with our hair up. There’s only the sound of our laughs, the coquis and the crickets. The sound of August nights beginning.

Memories: There I was. I probably had around eleven or twelve years. We were in the car talking, drinking, eating with the doors open in front of a bunch o bars. You know, like the old and good times in the country. When the streets were so calm and the people were more nicer. Where everyone enjoyed to walk just to feel the cold breeze and hear the salsa, bachata, or pop music of the bars. It was around midnight. I saw two girls friends walking and talking to each other, they were wearing a black skirt. And I said to my grandma: “I want one of those! I wish I could have one” and I never had the skirt, but I still remember the girls and their happiness and that night. And tonight, I am missing everything. I am missing those nights, “Frescas, libres, únicas”. I am missing those kind of people smiling on the streets without the fear of robbers. Tonight, I am missing people being very, very very happy.

Nights like these (verano presionado contra la piel, vientos frescos como pájaros oscuros) are meant to be split like a torn orange–passed between hands. 

Whenever I notice someone FaceTimeing in the grocery store they’re showing the other person fruit or asking them what cereal or coffee or dinner they want and it’s rly sweet imo

somos lo que florece después de llover

late July: still winds, nights fragrant with dirt and cherries, dancing to Eastern European music in a red sundress, picking fruit with my family, running and laughing in the garden like a little girl

Sparkling memories as green as the yards of family gatherings, running barefoot as a girl–sunned and strong. Stepping on sweet and rotting fallen pears underneath the canopy of white blossoming trees. The smell of limes slicing the heavy air as Tanty cooks outside. The sound of laughing brown limbs and native music playing from a cheap radio.

august 2nd: uncles smoking in backyards and the sound of many trees in wind, the word “corazón” in my mind and in the red hibiscus, lips full of midday sun that have turned to roses, holding singing babies with their hands in my dark curls, pitting avocados and slicing papayas, dancing dirty feet, playing cricket with the little tanned boys (a bruise ripening on my thigh like a sweet fig), a sundress that smells of grass, far-off rain, and osthmanthus flowers, a storm passing through the near distance–blue and consuming

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