10 July 2021

There is a picture of a younger you

That your mom has in a family album.

A chubby 4- or 5-year-old

With curly hair, wearing a grey crewneck,

And holding a Red Power Ranger plush doll,

With a bright smile no one else could match.

You had a best friend in Tijuana who lived across

The street from your house. He would come over

Often and you would play Super Mario Bros. 3

And watch Dragon Ball. Then you moved to the

US and hardly saw him.

You had a best friend in Costa Mesa who went

To the same elementary school as you and lived

In the apartment complex behind your place. One day,

You both carved out a space under the dividing fence and

He let you borrow a PS1 game. He showed you kindness

When others mostly bullied you for being fat. I never

Saw him again.

Each time you moved, you left parts of yourself behind.

Each time you resettled and hung out with the neighborhood kids,

You were reminded of the roots they had down in the soil

Below your feet while you always had to cut your roots to plant

Yourself in another place.

Before you noticed, loss became your best friend. How painful

Must it have been for younger you to smile and make new friends

Over and over and over, only to never see them again? You missed

Them so much.

Before you noticed, you made me to protect you, the shy and

Reserved person, the introverted extrovert, the quiet guy that

Seldom speaks, seldom smiles; the interrogator who coldly vets,

Because I know, more than anyone, how painful it is to let go.

11 November 20

I opened the side door to the house and, as I entered the kitchen, I saw my Dad sitting on the living room floor, hypnotically rocking back and forth, his forearms over his knees as he held something in his hands. He waived for me to come closer. I approached cautiously, the wails and cries pierced every muscle in my body.

I heard another person crying, shrieks intertwined with gasps for air. As I entered the living room, I turned to my left and saw one of my Tia sitting on the couch, sobbing; I saw her tears and saliva run down her face and lips as she tried to speak, drenching a throw pillow that she clutched, contorting it with her fingers pressed deep into it.

I asked them what had happened. And, as I finished the last word in my question, I felt a knot in my throat, like a jagged rock had suddenly materialized there preventing me from uttering another word. I turned towards my Dad, still on the living room floor, he handed me an index card he was holding. I reached for it, hand trembling.

I held the index card with both hands, shaking slightly. I read it. My eyes began to water as they moved from word to word; each one Death’s harbinger but also a hopeful and seemingly endless deferral – until I read her name and there she died – D Avenue. I shook my head repeatedly and clenched my fists, slamming them on the wooden blinds next to me, breaking a few. I realized my backpack was still on me, pressing against my shoulders, cutting into my flesh. So, I took it off and as it slammed against the side door in the kitchen, shattering the beveled glass. I screamed; I fell to my knees, gasping for air, bawling; I paused to catch my breath; I could do nothing but stare at the side door, longingly, thinking why her? But, before that,

I took a last drag of my cigarette, tossed it on the sidewalk, and stepped on it before crossing D avenue. I walked west on 18th street and turned right on the following street, to my astonishment, my Dad’s gray truck was parked in front of our house. I smelled my right hand, and my heart began to race; the smell of cigarette smoke lingered on my skin and clothes. Before that,

I exited the bus by the liquor store close to my house. I felt the warm rays of the noon sun on my skin, a pleasant feeling after a cold morning. I took out a Marlboro red and lit it. I figured I had enough time to finish it before getting home. I stopped at D avenue and took another drag as I waited for my turn to cross the street. My friend texted me asking if I was doing anything on the weekend; I replied saying that I was down for whatever. Before that,

I woke up around 6 a.m. to the sounds of everyone in the house getting ready like usual. I gathered the textbooks I needed for the day, from the mess strewn over my bedroom floor, and put them inside my black JanSport backpack. Before heading to the kitchen, I took a quick peak at the living room and saw my nephews sound asleep, their eyes shut as they tossed and turned on the mattress. My aunt tried waking them up by tickling them, with the same gestures, loving smile, and contagious laughter that had once woken me up when I was younger. I smiled at the familiar scene. I headed towards the kitchen and opened the side door to the house, a green tea-filled travel mug in one hand and phone in the other and yelled that I was leaving. My aunt replied “okay mijo, que te vaya bien,” “Gracias!” I said before I closed the door and left for school.

27 March 2020

Homes. For me, home was Tijuana, that

House on La Avenida Del Agua that my

Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins

Help build. Home were the summers in my

Abuelita Elvira’s house, el Cañón Johnson.

Home was Costa Mesa, the bottom bunk

In that little room, when we first moved to el otro lado.

Home was San Ysidro, when we moved

Closer to the border. Home was La Mesa, for a year

Or so. Home was San Ysidro, again, then Tijuana.

Home became National City. Home was

Then Oxnard and Camarillo then National City, briefly.

I kept moving North.

Home was Champaign, for almost 3 years, the second most

Time I’ve spent in one place.

A house is no home by default,

A home has no place it sticks to automatically,

It becomes sticky. Homes are familiar when you leave,

And strange when you return or vice-versa.

A home is never fixed in space nor time.

Home, for now, is California Avenue in Urbana.

18 September 2019

I waited at a bar in downtown Tijuana,

A cool and clear Saturday night.

I took out a cigarette, lit it, and took one,

Two, three drags before taking a sip of my beer.

You came up behind me, tapped me on my shoulder

And startled me. You laughed at how easily I startle

And smiled, that smile.

We moved spots, had some shots, tequila and mezcal,

We wanted to dance, so we hit up a club, second

Floor, Bad Bunny, J Balvin, Guaynaa, it got too hot

So, we stepped outside. Fresh air. We smoked a cigarette each

And talked about our past selves, past others.

Disappointments, ghosting. We finished our cigarettes so

We moved on to the third spot. 80’s music, beer, and

Dancing drunk, singing buzzed; almost like the song.

Then, our eyes met, and I saw it, we both smiled.

Your arms rested on my shoulders; my hands rested

On your hips, we swayed back and forth by the

Dance floor in between the tables and chairs,

Like no one else was there. You dropped me off,

I hugged you goodbye, that’s all I could do.

Hearts take time to heal when they’re bent out of shape.

13 June 2019

I should tell you that I carry all the lovers

I’ve ever known on my body. Not with their

Names tattooed here or there but on the

Body nonetheless; when tooth and nail cut

Deep enough to make the skin bleed with pleasure,

Leaving scars that hide stories others may

Discover. But memory is fragile. I’ve forgotten

Names, I’ve forgotten how we met, I’ve forgotten

What we said, what we promised or why. Details

Dissipate like the embers of fires crumbling to ash,

Consumed. Only the flesh remains.

Those habits, those gestures, those

Turns of phrase become phrases that turn on me

When others note how they would say it that way.

Where am I in all of me?

We tend to forget the parts of others that make us,

And what others have taken from the way that

We loved them.

8 April 2018

Entre las sonrisas, los abrazos, las miradas, y lo demás,

Siento que me dicen algo tan obvio que a la misma vez no dicen nada.

Me alarma que te acerques a mí.

La verdad es que me alejo de todos, conscientemente o

Inconscientemente, como un mecanismo de supervivencia.

Me desintegro un poco, como un cometa en órbita alrededor del sol,

Con cada aproximación a la luz del día.

Se me había olvidado lo que es sentir algo por alguien.

Dudas hay muchas, como olas en el mar.

Pero toda esa incertidumbre se desvaneció,

Si tan solo por un momento en la serenidad de esa madrugada.

De dos fronteras, pero con historias similares.

Bajo la luz de la noche y la sombra del amanecer, relatamos,

Del uno al otro,

Las cicatrices que nos ha dejado la vida.

Cada falla, dolor, y desilusión, en lo académico y lo personal.

Procesamos sentimientos en un lugar en donde sentir no se deja.

Existimos genuinamente en la mirada del otro,

Sin ajustes, sin censura,

Como almas sin temor a ser vulnerables,

Como almas queriendo ser libres.