*My father loves music too. That’s where I get it from, I think. We’d dance when his legs worked and choreograph sequences to show off during Christmas parties. But music for me, started in the crib. He’d play different sad ballads and said I’d cry hysterically at certain ones. Decades went by and one day I heard a song by Raphael de España, “Balada Triste de Trompeta,” being played somewhere out in the world and I started to cry. I made sure to pluck out some lyrics and looked them up and found the song online. I played it for days on end. I finally called my parents and asked if they remembered the song. “Claro que si.” my dad said. “Vos llorabas y llorabas cuando la ponia.“ I cried and cried he said. The body never forgets.
A miracle to grow inside a woman,
a miracle to stay alive
to be loved and put to bed—
to grow and play and laugh and hurt,
you are here to turn love into anger and back again—
I cry as I write this because the comedy of life is tragic,
the miracle of life is granted
as an afterthought, a sigh—
Camus said, “Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.”
I hope to be loved for the things I haven’t yet been.