Eloquentia.net

I don’t know how to write about cancer, how to write about this most harrowing and universal human experience.  It seems most people have a cancer story or more. Or a devastating illness story. Health is the exception, and it is precious, and if it gets taken for granted, it’s only because it is there to be taken for granted. If you can’t take it for granted, it isn’t there. (This last observation is my husband’s).  So, if I tell you my story, I’m pretty sure it will sound a lot like yours.  When your loved one falls ill, the aftermath is as sharp and absolute as a landscape altered by severe seismic activity. With cancer in particular, you never stop dreading the aftershocks. There are so many. After the therapies, the withering side effects. After the surgeries, the unforeseen complications. After the PET scans, the ongoing surveillance.  Michael says this was all harder on me than on him. Nuh-huh. Not a chance. I didn’t get stabbed with nephrost...

This post was going to be short. Then it got long. And now I know it's an ode to my parents -- When I was in school, one of the traditions I always looked forward to was going to the office supply store to get new school supplies with my parents. It moved me that they always allowed me to choose pretty things. Not the plain white erasers, but the colorful, scented ones. Not the yellow pencils, but pink ones, with my name stenciled on them in gold letters. The notebooks with the thick, creamy paper. The Hello Kitty mini stapler I could clip to my backpack. It seemed to me, every year, that the list of supplies was endless. There were even these double-sided colored pencils in El Salvador that we bought every year. One side was red, the other side was blue. Those pencils came in really handy when I was making study materials like vocabulary lists, notecards, and outlines. My mother made me take calligraphy lessons as a young child because she wanted me to have...

The truth is, Florida, I love you just as you are... you can sunshine, rain, and thunder at your whim because I love your calms and storms, your every tendril of lime-yellow light, your cornflower skies cracked so easily by a whisp of cloud and a slice of sun, and yes, even your moody, feather-grey rainclouds, and -- oh! -- especially your peach-pink-coral sunsets, and that midnight sky that is never really black, but the deepest steel-blue. (This is the most erotic thing I've written anyone lately, and that makes you damn lucky!) June 21, 2014

Everything reminds me of you right now -- the sight of a pretty sundress, of long brown hair, of my own running shoes, of the running path around the little lake that's by my house. The joyful notes of a Latin song. Even thoughts of my own mother and father (because they remind me of yours). I can find no comfort for this, Wendy. The loss of you is shattering. And that's how it's going to be. You and I shared a culture. We shared a language. We shared a love for running (but you were the better runner who ran marathons). We shared being tiny, Central American women. We shared a love for Literature (but while you were a Hemingway girl, I loved Henry James). We shared a love for Nasty Gal dresses (but only you were the true, day-to-day fashionista). We shared the small Liberal Arts college we attended (but while I was a Literature major, you pursued the career path my mother always wanted for me). We both loved the streets of Abacoa, those streets you used to run in bac...

When you live with strabismus, the sky is often the easiest thing to look at. Nothing jagged about it. You can look at the starriest, smokiest sky with exhausted eyes and still, it won’t daze you, because there are no real edges in it at all. Just light or darkness hanging in the gossamer of clouds or the delicate mesh of stars. Easy. When we left Madrid after our first ten days in Spain, the sky was completely ordinary. Could have been the Florida sky, if you were to pour a dollop of milk into the latter, to get just a paler shade of blue. I remember looking at it, wondering if it would rain. It didn’t. The morning was awash with sunlight when we stepped into the streets we had come to love completely in only ten days: streets that are ancient, walkable, peopled, and suffused with the reckless zephyrs of cigarette smoke. We exchanged warm farewells with the concierge of Apartamentos Juan Bravo , and promised to return the following year. Then we hailed a cab and asked to be taken ...

Hello from Barcelona! We've been here since Wednesday. We're staying in an adorable Airbnb close to Las Ramblas owned by a beautiful, honey-skinned, maple-eyed girl named Maria. Her little apartment is furnished with retro decor: a red couch, black coffee table, white footstool, and plenty of funny/inspirational quotes on the walls. A smile is the best make-up any girl can wear!, Marilyn Monroe is purported to have said, according to the quote beside the bed. A large print of a bright red lipstick kiss accents this quote. The bedspread is a paisley print that is, for the most part, navy blue. The entryway reminds me that If you believe in yourself, anything is possible . A flutter of black butterflies is stuccoed to the wall behind the television. This neighborhood is vibrant. Immediately downstairs are a dozen restaurants, including a Muslim bakery and a pizza/beer joint called Caleuche, el Horno Patagónico . Children play ball in the courtyards and squeal on the swingset...