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“You can still love someone even after they hurt you.”
Why be less when he was so much more?
He wove words together that turned into mirages, but only Orquídea seemed to recognize the truth behind it. She wanted to pull his curtains back and see the fibers of his being.
“Am I supposed to believe you?” “It’s not whether or not you can believe me. It’s whether you want to.”
When she’d met Orquídea Montoya, she saw a whisper of a girl who wanted to become a scream.
“There is nothing brighter than a wish. It comes from true hope. Humanity is so full of that. Desperate hope. Joyous hope. Even those in anguish, especially those in anguish, I should say, have hope. The anticipation that tomorrow will be better than the next day. I find it terribly amusing.”
You’ve never met your great-grandmother, but blood is like a tether, even when the tether is frayed. The connection is there, deep down, hasta la raíz.” Down to the root.
How was she supposed to know which life had been the right one?
She was an ocean of stories, memories, thousands of little moments that made up her whole being.
How do you fight a thing that believes it owns you? How do you fight the past? With gold leaves and salt? With silence? With new earth beneath your feet? With the bodies, the hearts of others? With hearts that are tender and bloodied but have thorns of their own. With the family that chooses you.
And she knew, nothing was infinite, not truly. Not even the stars.
There were not enough words that could be spoken. They were entangled deeper than roots and always would be, and that was enough. Sometimes silence said enough.
But that was the way of missing people. You wished for them, you longed for them, you forgot them. Then you wished for them again.
