in between

I’ve been wondering lately about the phrase “pocket of time”. It first came up in a book, and then in a conversation, and now I cannot seem to get it out of my head. I think it is like a splurge of minutes, days or years that seem to curve at a beginning and an end, without giving us much warning of when.

The more I’ve thought about it, the more pockets I’ve picked: an aloof moment of melancholy at the sight of a rain, a feeling of lightness throughout a good conversation, an arbitrary spot of inspiration. I’ve started picking the larger pockets, pinpointing where I moved and left, where I mentally gave and took back, where a hope grew and broke. And then, there are the more evident pockets of time: the best parts of my childhood, a rough patch in high school, the last months of college…

While I try to make sense of these moments, other pockets of time remain a mystery. A friend just got severely sick while another friend celebrated a job offer. Couples celebrated their anniversary while a sickening shooting took place. They’re overlapping pockets in my mind, though separate in life. I can try to make more sense of those, because I’m only a shadow of significance in them. But what about my own pockets of time that so confusingly overlap?

What do I say when I hold a gift on one hand and loss in the other? When a moment of nostalgia inadvertently lengthens its course? When life at this moment does not conform to what I’ve been told it should look like?

The more practice I get with picking these pockets of time, the more I want to extract the beginning traces so that I can better predict the end. If anything, maybe then I’ll be more prepared for disappointment, goodbyes, or whatever life decides to throw at me. But there are endings that I cannot understand, because they come too soon or not soon enough. And then there are beginnings which I wish for but of which I see no pocket, and beginnings to which I hope I won’t see an end. I guess that’s the confusing part. Though I try, I cannot contain or define these pockets of time. I cannot fully understand what is happening now and I cannot fully predict what will happen in the future. I can try to catch every beginning curve to prepare myself for an end, or I can learn to live and move and have my being– all in the in between.

my heart is red

My heart is red

over the grass that settles between my two homes and the blood on the streets.

My heart is red

over the thought of my friends and the walk through Main Street. I hear the laughter that rolls out of our lungs, a ballad that laces my mind with spring. I hear the violinist’s ode.  She plays, and our minds dance. A crowd of loners gather, we hold out our selves into the tiny circle: a mixture of stories and accents, held silent by her ode. The City leans in, and our skin drinks deep from the late winter breeze. We are pale and dark against the moonlight. Virginia continues to sing.

My heart is red

porque el aliento de mis calles es pasión y vivir, un juego de danza, alegría y sentir. Siento cada color de risa en el parque, las voces que rozan contra cada tipo de catedral. Sigo viviendo en un atardecer por la plaza, cogida de la mano de mis padres, pequeña ante la fuerza de la ciudad.  Recuerdo el guitarrista que cantaba, las palomas que volaban, el rozar de mis dedos contra la brisa penumbral. Así quedaste plasmada en mi mente. En las calles de Barcelona, viví tu magia, sentí tu fuerza.  No hay color que te miedo. Eres un mundo que deja entrar.

My heart is red

because I fall between two worlds and I hear the cry of each:

“Look at me, look at who I really am.”

¿Por qué seguimos con miedo? Where has our courage gone?

I hear the red of the streets, the red of my heart,

I hear the red of our banners, the red of the same song.

El dolor contínua, y las lágrimas caerán,

Pero nuestras tierras siguen en rojo,

mi corazón, igual.







Soft rays peek into the room, melting streaks of gold onto the wooden floor. Here, it is quiet, and it is safe. All the thoughts of yesterday and all the thoughts of tomorrow collide. Who I am, here and now, is different than who I was yesterday, though that girl often returns.

She steps in quietly like a thief, dragging a suitcase into my room. She unzips it open, talking about the things I want to forget, reminding me of the things I still don’t have.

At this point, I tend to shove her out. “I don’t need your ¿?, I have no more space for your thoughts.”

But today the light is lovely, and I’m too tired to tell her to go. “You may stay, if you want. The light is warm.”

So she unzips the little suitcase, right in the middle of my room. I let her sit, and I listen, watching her take out every ¿? and thought, setting each one on the golden floor. We sit in silence for some time, watching the light dance, talking about who we are. Soon, the rosy light fades into dusk, and she’s standing at the door.

“it is okay” I say, as she points at the empty suitcase.

“i am different now”