I was mad at the cold until

I saw a long sheet of plastic flying and twirling in the air. I was still bitter, and when I made it a few steps from my door, a neighbor said, "C'mon. Get up." I looked over and saw her dog dead on its side on a huge heap of snow. The dog didn't move its head, but its eyes, and looked over at me. "He's lazy," the neighbor said.

I wonder who else knows that this slow guitar instrumental is the Beatles's "I will."

hermana

A friend asked me when her wedding is, and I said in October. I noticed that in less than 8 months, it'll be here. I can't wait to see her blossom after this new chapter and pursue her passions, expand her possibilities, have space and time [to herself]. No need to worry about anyone else. Pluck out who and what is best for her. She needs this freedom to be the colorful, strong person she's always been. I never loved someone right. I never was loved so much. Some people love only what is lovely. They didn't see the parts that she saw. They didn't stay up with me many, many nights when I was at my worst. Their love didn't change me, and I don't mean change me in a summer romance and teach me some important things, but truly change me and push me to finally grow up. But her love did. Her love for me shows her strength. It's not a shame to love, it's not a weakening action or pursuit. I wondered what it was for many years, but never followed through with it, never was transformed by it, until I grew in love with her. I couldn't grasp the idea of living monogamously with someone and loving them every single freaking day, how annoying and tarnished it would be. But every day, I love her, though I don't like how she handles things or cares too much. I love her but want to be away from her. I love her and want to be next to her. I love her because she is not like me, but because she is like me. That because she is like me, she chooses different routes, she chooses to be different. And then I learn to be different, for the betterment of myself. As her sister, I was forced into this relationship, but learned how to love because of it.

She's leaving home. bye-bye ~The Beatles

Fog's rollin' in

still not over

Everyone had a love story in Granada. Not just the Granadinos, but the lovers from Argentina and Belgium living and loving in Spain. The Hawaiian and the Czech. The Italian and the Italian. My Spanish mother and her once French boyfriend.....

Ok. Now I'm done. Time for homework.

(After my nostalgic writing, I read a funny headline in the Chicagoist that read, "War has been waged." The photo was of a crowd of people snowball fighting. I read a woman's comment and snapped out of my nostalgia. She wrote, "My god, I miss the HECK out of you, Chicago.")

the time to be nostalgic isn't over

the emotions I wanted to elicit were clearer when translating the story to Spanish. It told a new story.

que será, será

My memories, my memories, of Granada, watching the sky swallow up mountains and hills whose homes turned to stars as it reached night and we left Salobreña, the yellow sunset with a silhouette of large rocks that made me feel so afraid, afraid of pure beauty, the soft hands of María and her silky white robe, a woman speaking to her dog in Spanish, the water dripping down from flower pots when they'd siesta and I'd walk and hear every footstep and sweep of the broom. The walks home at night, at evening, mornings, all the time. And I remember thinking over and over, trying to picture how it would all be, telling myself I'd die before it happened because the future wasn't clear to me. But now, that emptiness of my mind that longed for the future, is tainted and fermented with memory, collecting flowers in hand as I stroll. And maybe love is along this path. And maybe I won't die.