Note To Self
This is me,
Shades of potato farmers,
And arroz con leche.
Shades of a culture my lips never touched,
Here I am, writing letters to the dead. It’s been five years, but every year on December 7th, it feels like yesterday. I think it hurts more growing older. Thinking about where you’d be, and how much more life is than the four years we spent in the halls of that ancient building. I wonder if you’d have skated your…
I found a letter from my father tucked away in my journal. Memories of his past, questioning his decisions, abandonment, and a letter to me.
“I am sor — ,” crossed out. And he never got much farther. We’re still stuck there, in the middle of that word. In the middle of a parking lot, in…