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La memoria guardará lo que valga la pena. La memoria sabe de mí más que yo; y ella no pierde lo que merece ser salvado. —Eduardo Galeano, Días y noches de amor y de guerra
“Time doesn’t make feelings go away. It just makes people more willing to push them aside.
He was wearing a thin, long-sleeved shirt that reminded her of the pages of an old library book,
Not every moment can be precious.” “Oh, mija. Even the shittiest ones are. One day you’ll look back and mourn the pain of it, how alive you were.”
“When he cries, remember your body used to be his whole world. Cherish the moments he cries for you, but let him go a little more each day.”
Everything else felt like echoes until they were gone.
She stretched her lips into a smile in his wake, and on her face it felt foreign, a fragile, broken thing.
What a fragile thing it was, to feel connected.
“Decisions are not the same as choices.”
The floors turned to crunchy orange dirt underneath them, and he looked up as the ceiling turned to sky. Memory made their love feel like an open, boundless thing, and he wondered if this were true or just a trick of life’s contrasts—a room darkened by a flash of too much light.
She had never walked these halls in these shoes. The rubber soles of her wedges pierced the silence, their whiny cadence vulgar among the sounds of hearts and lungs being monitored.
this aching hesitation that made love burn and run scared in circles, because the only place that could cradle all her hurt was the same place that was causing it.
“There is no point. Life is shit, but it’s fucking beautiful.”
