My reveries and spider-web memories catch me. I find the water rapidly cooling.
There are only minutes left if I’m to make it on time.
I drag myself from the tub after a vigorous scrub, tuning in to the silence—once filled by chatter, yelling, screeches, or giggles.
It is Tuesday.
Read MoreRead MoreTheir way of speaking as important as their quips. If I give you the details, you’d get distracted because tone and feelings were primary. Feelings I remember now: sad, humor, giggles, sliced thin truth, clever melancholy, thick sadness.
All of that in one-liner feelings. Eight minutes, 23 seconds.
Read MoreSu forma de hablar es tan importante como sus bromas. Si te doy los detalles, te distraerías porque el tono y los sentimientos eran primordiales. Sentimientos que recuerdo ahora: tristeza, humor, risas, verdad finamente cortada, melancolía inteligente, tristeza espesa.
Todo eso en sentimientos de una sola línea. Ocho minutos, 23 segundos.
Read MoreConditioned against healing the systems oppressing us, I sit here, too. The spice hits my tongue. I love its hotness, the dare of trying more on the next taco.
Unwavering in my tiredness, delight, anger, angst. The bigness of feelings, embraced. Familiarity with oppression is normalized, to where I am chastised for any attempt to bring relief to mi gente by asking those in power to remove their heavy feet off our necks. But we keep asking, demanding, resisting, and flying.
