From a coffee cup’s sweet bitterness into cold wind swept knowing that the place you search and yearn for is nowhere, no street names, no city gate. No degrees nor longitudinal measures to speak of. A compass can be useless when you are lost. Nowhere multiplies in your chest ravenous, like yeast. It hurts. The exact second, your shadow on the pavement. Sometimes your life is a minute ahead and a few days behind the place you want to be. Sometimes things align and you want to tear a piece of the shadow as you would a piece from a loaf of bread. But this place you search has no replicable terrain, no map. It moves as you move. A shapeshifter with a tropic of memory, a tropic of fear, a meridian to decide you can and an equator to know you choose.
Today is Día de los Muertos. I took the children to visit Father Bill.
As usual we shared chocolate and pan de muerto. We poured a lot of
chocolate on his piece of bread and the ground around his grave
swallowed greedily. We could have poured a river. When father Bill
died a river, each tear like no other. I cried for each sister and brother,
for the ones who were children and for the ones who were grown. I
cried for me. I cried for you. I cried for my children, for things they
know nothing about. War leaves no time for grieving. My right to
mourn came with Father’s Bill’s fall. At first glance the US and El
Salvador have nothing in common. Then time revealed the violence of
poverty, the violence of drugs, the violence of guns and like Monseñor
said, the violence of love.