I am the one who dreams.
I dream of the love that revels in the ordinary – in walks shared and kisses traded, in confrontations, in meals cooked, in corners of the body discovered as the Nocturnes carried us to sleep.
I am the one who fears.
I fear disease and sickness, and indifference. I fear I may become irrelevant, or that I will lose my money and my hair. I fear all my nightmares and the horrors of many realities.
I am the one who leaves.
I pack my life in two suitcases – one light blue and the other black. I take my clothes and notebooks, my earrings and scarves, the greeting cards and the letters, and things my mother stuffed in when I was not paying attention. We cry. But I am also far away, already observing the tears from a distance, knowing I will write about it someday. I leave often, I go from parent to guardian to keeper, occasionally wresting freedom and solitude. When I return, I bring with me the smells of different places and stories of cities where the rain fell differently. I carry inside me the speech of different people. Some I have loved, some have made me cry.