The
Night
She left
She was gone on a Friday night,
just after the spring solstice.
The light was on,
I heard the screams.
I slept.
Life was different after that.
We left the house,
my cousins, my friends
and the garden where my grandparents
raised four kids,
bringing together two cultures
across the valley of vino tinto and pintxos,
of pollo en adobo and pancit.
we left so we could rebuild
- whatever life was left -
after I met death for the first time,
when it took away my little sister
late at night.
Things got blurred for a while.
We moved to a small apartment,
then to a larger one,
until we settled in a thirteen floor,
high above the heart of the city,
where my abuelo once sold Levi’s jeans,
and my uncle after him, to this day.
The new streets turned home,
new friends arrived,
some family left.
One night,
sleeping pills disappeared from the bedside table,
instead,
travel guides, books and movies filled the shelves.
