TECHNOLOGICAL HAPPINESS

by Claudia Rey

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Vigil

by Claudia Rey

The baby lies still on the cave's floor, on a bed of flowers and palm branches. Six days old, but his heart couldn't beat regularly, his lungs couldn't pump enough air into his frail body and he died this morning. His tiny face is as white as ivory, nearly transparent. He looks like a porcelain doll - small, so small. All around him, white candles and bowls of copal burn in the heavy air.

The cave has been dug centuries ago on the side of the hill, up over the village: a ten minutes climb in the humid night, with a man guiding us by the light of a flickering candle. The dirt road is quite steep, and after a while we don't feel the cold any more. Chanting voices waft towards us. A group of people has gathered in the cave: the baby's father sits near his head, the mother opposite him, and they sing a wailing prayer, each one answering the other with a verse. They sing in the local, ancient language called Ocotlán, but we understand some words - jiho, chiquito, mi corazón. Around them, sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, the closest relatives. Dressed in white tunics, resting their heads against the cave's walls, their eyes closed, they follow the prayer with a low humming. On the father's knees rests the baby's sister, three years old. Her face is quiet, almost smiling, as she breathes deeply in her sleep.

It all looks like a cruel, reverse Nativity scene. And yet, what a profound peace: no crying, no shouting in despair, only this sad song, this last lullaby, wrapping the dead baby in waves of love.

A lady offers us some yellow flowers, and following her example we each kiss a flower and put it on the floor, near the baby. Then we go.

How pure, how genuine this ceremony is, I think as I follow our guide down the road. What a dignified, noble way to express their sorrow. How consoling, in its own way.

The vigil will go on all night long. At dawn the little corpse will be cremated, and the ashes will be scattered from a high rock overlooking the sea. Then the father, shaman and sculptor, will start carving his lost baby's face in a stone to be set on the cave's threshold. Other ancestors are waiting there for him - he won't be alone.

DIOSA

by Claudia Rey

You know, said the handsome man
I thought that our friendship could develop
that we could become more than friends
but something just doesn't fit.
Don't know what it is
maybe you're too much for me
too clever, too sophisticated
too well learned, too…
Too old? said the woman.
Come on, man, say it,
stop coating the pill.
I'm too old, that's your problem.
What a pity.
You couldn't see past the façade
so you don't pass the test.
She twisted a shell on her bracelet
and stood transformed.
Taller, slimmer, tanned,
smooth oval face,
shining golden eyes.
A stunning beauty.
A bluish cloud surrounded her as she went away
hips swaying, long skirt flowing like water.
Amigo, said the waiter
bringing him a glass of mezcal,
lo siento para ti. She was Naya, the sea goddess,
but you didn't recognize her.

Holy drug

by Claudia Rey

There should be an oblivion pill
to make stubborn people like me
deaf and blind and numb.
One pill
and my heart wouldn't stop
when someone mentions your name.
Two pills
and a knife wouldn't cut me in two
if I remember you saying WE
meaning you and someone else.
Three pills
and love wouldn't be a four-letter word.

TUSCAN TWILIGHT

by Claudia Rey

Old stones take a pink hue in the sunset and a cool breeze  ruffles our  hair and clothes. Only institutional buildings in this square: the cathedral, the town hall, a cardinal's mansion, another stately palace belonging to an aristocratic family. Power at its best - so deadly serious, so dignified. And yet...

A couple of years ago a director chose Montepulciano, its steep narrow streets and medieval cobblestones, to shoot part of his film. Many other movies had already been made there, but this one was special. This was the story of two young beautiful ill-fated lovers, a vampire and a common girl. New Moon, part two of a really popular saga called Twilight.

The news quickly spread and millions of avid teenagers invaded the town  hoping to catch a glimpse, a smile, possibly an autograph from the actors.

A fake fountain was built in the square; hundreds of extras were hired, half of them more than willing to work for free just for the thrill of being there. The filming went on for a week, with the local Film Commission patiently solving major or small problems.  Locals were intrigued or annoyed, but shop owners were delighted by such a boost in the town economy. In the end, as always, Montepulciano survived.

Now some restaurants and bars offer a Twilight menu: pizza with the reddest tomatoes, spaghetti in a dark sepia-ink sauce, "caprese" with pale mozzarella, purple beetroot-and-orange juice. Young tourists seem to appreciate.

Stage blood was never shed for a better cause.

Poets in town

by Claudia Rey

In this warm evening summer - before the real heat strikes - it's pleasant to walk back home after a movie. In the main square a pop concert is about to start an the players tune their instruments. My friend and I stroll  under the arcades, humming to a softer music coming from a CD player. There's a guy there, holding a big puppet in his arm - he has slipped his hand in the puppet's bigger, rubber-foam one and waves to passers-by. The CD player is on the pavement at his feet, along with a piece of black velvet scattered with coins and a basket full of small parchment-like paper rolls. A sign attached to the basket reads CHOOSE A POEM.

I stop. Of course I want a poem!

The guy smiles at me. "Would you like José to choose one for you?" he asks nodding to his friend.

"Oh yes, please!" I say.

José bends and retrieves a poem, and the guy offers to read it aloud. It's a verse by Fernando Pessoa, and the guy is clearly Portuguese. So I tell him the only two Portuguese words I know, Muito obrigada.

"Ah, meu idioma!" sighs José dramatically bringing its big hand to its heart. Then it whispers something to the man's ear. "Now he would like a kiss" translates the guy.

Why not, I think, kissing the rubber cheek. José smells faintly of moth-balls, but I tell to myself that poets deserve some affection and a material reward as well. I put some coins on the black cloth.

"Obrigado" says the guy. "Poetry has no price, but we have to eat from time to time." I smile again and off I go holding my precious little poem.

My friend looks at me shaking her head and laughing. "So very like you" she tells me. Behind our backs the guitar music has changed and Carlos Jobim now sings THE GIRL FROM IPANEMA. I know it's not for me, but oh, how flattering.

STILETTO

by Claudia Rey

She always wore high heels

platform, wedge, stiletto

pumps, sandals, boots.

She wasn't exactly short

but her inner self was much taller

and the world had to know.

Her husband of course disapproved.

After the divorce

she started wearing flat shoes

and let her hair grow

for balance.

She also quit smoking

but that's another story.

Postcard from Mexico Number 3

by Claudia Rey

Whales start to migrate in January, from cold countries as Alaska and British Columbia to Baja California and its warmer waters. One morning, all of a sudden, someone calls Ballenas! and there they are, jumping out of the waves, blowing sprays of water and then plunging in the deep again. They know where to go and when, but they also communicate among them with a complicate system of sounds which can carry across an incredible distance. They use these songs to warn each other, to encourage the youngsters, to flirt or love. Following this amazing net of melodies, whales have been travelling across the oceans for thousands of years. No tickets to book, no luggage to carry around, no jet lag. They simply go. Majestic, quiet, beautiful. It must be great to be a whale.

Postcard from Mexico Number 2

by Claudia Rey

Elvis (the names you find in Mexico!) is painfully thin, could be any age from thirty to sixty, has a marvellous sculpted face that seems to come directly from an Orozco mural, but is no warrior: he sells papayas he grows in his orchard. Every morning he rises at five, arranges the fruits in a wheelbarrow and walks from one pueblo to the other, advertising his produce with the ringing of a small brass bell. His papayas are carefully wrapped in newspaper sheets, sometimes old magazines. "That way" he tells me, "when I'm tired and need a minute to rest, I can read something. The news might not be fresh, but it doesn't matter. The important thing is reading. Keeps your mind working." This is real wisdom, I think. As simple and natural as his fruits.

Postcard from Mexico Number 1

by Claudia Rey

Omar owned an elegant beauty parlor in Mexico City. Small but central, well known among the so-called fresas (strawberries) the young and rich and spoiled girls who follow every fashion diktat and love to dress in pink. He was very good, worked a lot, was slowly becoming rich. His fancy cuts were famous. But suddenly he had enough. Pollution, traffic, cold weather? Enough. He left the shop to his business partner and came to the beach. Now he lives eight months near the sea, walks along the beach with a backpack filled with his tools - scissors, combs, towels, sprays - and cuts hair directly there, on the sand. He also goes to the customer's home or hotel if she needs something more sophisticated such as color, highlights or whatever. Along with hair care he gives face massages and philosophical conversation, and likes to pretend that his second name is Aristotle... The town shop still works, and affectionate customers still hope for him to go back for real. Which will never happen, he tells me with a grin. The few months he has to stay there, in the cold capital, he feels upset and nervous. Mexico City is not his place anymore. Home is where you feel happy, corazón. How could anyone disagree?

LOVE SONGS

by Claudia Rey

Unrequited love songs
turn boring in the end
but new songs I don’t have.
Time has done its job:
most days my heart's beat
is just perfunctory
and I don't feel anything.
Not sure I like it.
Probably I'm ready
for someone
to hurt me again.

Peter, Pan and Mary

by Claudia Rey

Peter Pan has grown old
and doesn't fly around any more.
Last time he tried his old tricks
his back started to ache
his arms felt heavy
gravity went to his head
and he had to hurry back home.
He's fifty-seven, after all.
He still doesn't wear a jacket
or a necktie - for heaven's sake!
But his green elf costume
is shrunk and frayed at the edges,
so he had to accept jeans
and a green sweatshirt.
And desert boots.
Mary Poppins... well,
she aged more graciously.
Her hair is greying
but the new wavy cut
gentles her face.
She is still a bit stern
her manners are flawless
she's a real lady, after all.
But she smiles
from time to time
and she started to wear pastel colors.
Specially when she meets Peter for tea
in Kensington Gardens.

ESCOBILLA 2

by Claudia Rey

A year later and nothing has changed: the sand is still warm, there are hundreds of stars over our heads, the waves are luminescent with plankton and roll gently towards the beach. We are here for a different reason, though. We did come to see turtles, but babies and not mothers.

It is nearly seven, already dark, and at first the beach looks desert and still. We sort of expected a frenzy of movement, but the only sign that something is about to happen is the loud quak of garzas, black birds similar to crows but bigger and uglier.

“They are waiting” explains our guide Luis. “They know that in a while they will have a good dinner.” I shiver. Okay, the laws of nature and so on, but do garzas have to eat baby turtles? Now?

We walk for some minutes by the light of our torches, but we only see broken whitish eggshell. Then Luis stops us. “Look, a nest” he says pointing to a spot where something is moving. I fall to my knees. A tiny black head, the size of a hazelnut, is surfacing from the sand… then I see a flipper. Slowly the tortuguita emerges from the nest, moving very weakly as if it was drunk. Another follows, then another. And soon there are dozens of them, stepping one over the other in their desperate quest for air - and the security of the ocean.

I'm dying to touch one of the little creatures, but I'm afraid a human hand might affect them in some way, possibly removing some protective film or whatever… “Of course you can” smiles Luis. So I reach slowly and caress the shell, which is surprisingly hard, while head and flippers are as soft as velvet. The babies are not bigger than a hen's egg and look sweet and vulnerable, but are in fact strong and resilient, and very good at fighting for life. At the end of their nose they have a sort of hard needle which they use to break the egg shell, and after emerging from a rather deep nest - which is in itself a challenge - they run to the sea and they start swimming, without eating anything for at least three days. Not bad for newborns, with no mummy to tell them what to do or at least to encourage them.

As if an alarm clock had started, hundreds of hatchlings are now leaving their nests all at the same time. It is nearly ten, the half moon is shining and we don't need torches any more. Now the sand is swarming of small creatures, at least fifty for each nest, and we walk from one nest to another very carefully to avoid stepping on them. Here and there we can still see the big round form of a mother turtle laying her eggs, but those are the younger ones who probably lost their way, explains our guide, and they are very few. The two events are very well spaced by Mother Nature: first the delivery, forty-five days later the birth. And they rarely mix.

Well, it's time to leave the babies to their business. But the real treat of the evening has still to come: we are allowed to put a tortuguita on our hand, and Luis takes an infra-red photo. The proportions are amazing: I can only imagine how scared the babies would be if they could see themselves on our giant palms. But they couldn't care less, or so it seems.

The tide has changed and big waves come nearer. A dozen of newborn have nearly reached their goal… then a wave enfolds them, taking them away. “So long, babies” whispers the lady near me. She has come from Puebla expressly to see this "milagro" as she calls it. “And now, let's have a nice cold beer” she suggests.

Sure, why not? Right now, a cold beer seems just the thing.

Second Millennium Fairy Tale

by Claudia Rey

‘Hi, pretty little thing’
growled the wolf
jumping on the path
from behind a bush.
‘Going for a picnic?’
The girl batted her long lashes
and adjusted her red bonnet.
‘A big bad wolf… how interesting’
she said with a smile.
‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’
said the wolf, disappointed.
‘Er… no. Should I?’
‘Of course you should.
Ever heard about the big wolf
who eats tender little girls
and their grandmothers as well?’
‘Aw, come on’ laughed the girl.
‘No one believes this any more.
And speaking of eating,
are you sure you could manage?
I’m not as tender as I look,
actually I’m pretty tough.
As for my grandma, poor thing,
she’s so old and bony…
not that much to chew there.’
The wolf stared at her, confused.
‘But… but look at me!’
he insisted. ‘Yellow, scary eyes…
sharp fangs… strong claws…
I mean, the works!
You should be terrified!’
The girl examined him critically
from head to tail.
‘Scary eyes, you say?
My dear, they are not scary at all,
they only look sort of red
as if you didn’t get enough sleep.
Try eye-drops, they do wonders.
Fangs? Hum. Not so sharp
and rather yellow in fact.
You should see a dentist!
Now, show me your claws.’
She took his paw in her hand.
‘But Wolfie, you have a problem here!
You see here? A badly broken one.
And there? Broken as well.
Wait a minute, not exactly broken…’
She frowned. ‘Say, do you bite you nails?
The wolf stooped his head
and burst into tears.
‘I’ve been so depressed lately…
no one is afraid of me any more,
can’t find a single goat or lamb,
rabbits and mice regularly outrun me,
I often go to bed hungry…
and now little Red Riding Hood’
he sobbed ‘makes fun of me!’
Red Hood put her arm round him.
‘Now, now, don’t cry. You know what?
I’ll buy you a drink. A beer,
a brandy, a whisky. You choose.
There must be a bar over there
just round the bend.’
‘But… a drink?’ said the wolf.
‘Little girls don’t drink!’
‘Wolfie’ grinned Red Hood
‘don’t be so daft.
I’m no little girl, I’m twenty-eight!
But I had to keep my job, you see,
so I got myself a nip and tuck.
And you know what,
you should do the same.’

Ordinary summer day

by Claudia Rey

Late morning, mid August. It’s a beautiful day, there are some errands that have been long postponed, and the township offers free parking for one more week. Why not go downtown, she decides.

She drives quietly for a while, careful as usual. She never rushes, and why today of all days? The traffic is sparse, lots of people have left, the streets are nearly empty. She thinks of the different things to do. And suddenly… screech, whack, bang! A white van rams into her little car. “Oh, Christ” she whispers. The van had right of way. She should have stopped and she didn’t.

But she has stopped now. Gingerly she tries to open her door and sees that it is bended at an ugly angle. The side window has exploded in a million green shards that cover the car’s floor and her skirt. More of them are scattered on the street. The whole scene looks unreal. The silence is eerie.

Stepping from the car she absently brushes the shards away, without checking if one of them has wounded her. She is too busy gripping her purse and car keys – mainly to prevent her hands to shake.

Three men from the van surround her. “Are you all right?” they ask. She nods. “Are you sure? Do you want to sit down?” “Heavens, no” she says, “I’ve been sitting until a minute ago…” One of them insists: “Wouldn’t you like some water?” “I would love a coffee” she answers, “but let’s think about this business first.” So the man calls the police and they start waiting.

Within five minutes two guys appear out of nowhere. They are not policemen nor curious passers-by: one wears an overall, the other a polo shirt, both have a logo embroidered on the breast pocket. Tow Service So-and-So… Repair Shop This-and-That. Two big tow trucks are parked nearby.

“Who called these two vultures?” she whispers.

“They probably have radios tuned to the same channel as the police” explains one the men from the van.

They wait some ten minutes more – the two vultures lingering in the background. Meanwhile the day has become warmer, then positively hot. Finally two policemen arrive on their motorcycles and start collecting information, writing down details, asking questions. Quick, efficient, very polite.

One of the tow guys notices that the policemen are nearly finished and approaches her. “You probably need to take you car to a repair shop, right?”
“Right, but I already called the free service from my insurance company” she lies. “Thank you.” Then she really starts phoning. The tow service is not so easy to obtain, and finding an open repair shop in August is even more difficult. It’s two o’clock, everyone is probably having lunch – if they are not already on holiday – and no one answers the phone. Finally an address is found. Her car is secured on the platform of the tow truck, she climbs up near the driver, and off they go.

The repair shop they reach after a long journey is closed for the holidays. A second one they try is closed as well. She has to phone the insurance company each time, to have the authorization to take the car to a different address. It’s half past three, and the driver starts to look slightly nervous.

In the end, he suggests the same garage his truck comes from, and the insurance company agrees. She enters a cool office and gratefully accepts a seat and a soda. The garage owner fills some forms, an agreement is reached, she signs the papers and is assured that her car will be ready as soon as possible.

She finally calls a taxi and gets home at half past five. Her sister has phoned her: she returns the call, explains her predicament, receives some words of praise: “How brave you’ve been, I don’t know how you managed so well, I would have panicked.” “Well, thank you…” she smiles before replacing the receiver.

And this is when she collapses and starts crying. She is so tired to be strong and independent, she wants to be consoled like a little girl who scraped her knee. She wants a band-aid and a glass of milk and a cookie. And a healing kiss from her mum. Maybe a drink would be just as good? But she hates whisky and never buys it.

So she blows her nose and makes herself a black, strong coffee with lots of sugar and cream. Adult comfort food.

Aunt Rose’s shallow heart

by Claudia Rey

Aunt Rose fell in love for the very first time in kindergarten. Paul had blonde hair and blue eyes, she was a perky brunette, and this difference was one of his appeals; but she liked the kid mainly because he didn’t pay any attention to her. Paul never teased Rose, never pulled her hair, never tried to steal her snacks. In a word, he simply ignored her. This made her crazy with love – and rage. It went on for a couple of months, then Paul’s family moved to another city and Rose never saw him again.

In secondary school she fell in love for the second time. Rita was new in town and sat near Rose in their classroom, so they became good friends. Rita was an excellent student, far better than Rose who wasn’t especially brilliant but very pretty. The two girls completed each other, in a way. One day Rose met Rita’s older brother. Lawrence wasn’t handsome, but he was tall… and Rose had grown taller than all the other girls her age. Lawrence was the only boy she could look straight in the eyes, which made him special; he called her Rita’s pretty friend, which was extremely flattering. Going to Rita’s place to do homework together became the most important event in Rose’s days. But soon Lawrence met another girl, a very pretty blonde according to Rita. For the first time in her life Rose felt ugly, and never forgave him for this.

Through her teens Rose had other flirts and crushes, but in her old age she used to dismiss them as mere trifles. She was just practicing for something bigger, she said. And when she was twenty-two that something came.

Joseph’s parents rented a house in the mountains near the one where Rose and her family went in summer. He played tennis and hockey, was a good climber and an excellent swimmer. Rose didn’t practice any sport: she didn’t want sweat to ruin her hairdo or make-up, and the idea of running after a ball or swinging a racquet, possibly breaking one of her perfectly lacquered nails, was simply absurd. But she liked boys who were into sports, if only because this gave them a healthy tan and interesting muscles. Joseph had both. He wasn’t very tall… but no one is perfect.
Encouraged by her occasional smiles, he became courting Rose. But at this point she started noticing that he wasn’t so interesting, that his conversation wasn’t so witty, that his adoring eyes were boring. Joseph was too nice, too kind. He was in love with Rose, so he didn’t treat her badly. Big mistake.
She kept him hanging on for two years. Then she surrendered, simply because many girlfriends of hers were already married and she felt that this was her destiny too. Young women her generation were supposed to marry, to have a husband and children, a regular family. Nothing different was socially accepted.

So she married Joseph. Life for the young couple was rather pleasant: Joseph had become an engineer who designed aircrafts for a big firm, he earned reasonably well and as a married man was invited to a lot of social events. Rose was delighted to go with him, of course. She was soon known as “beautiful Mrs G.” and being admired, wearing elegant gowns, flirting without depth became a sort of a full-time job for her. It was at this point in life that she chose to put her brain to rest. No need to be clever, she thought. No need to say or think anything too brilliant, since nobody actually listened to her. Men were too taken by her beauty, women too busy envying or hating her. Her conversation took a regular pattern: after a few pleasant futilities she quoted a funny thing she had read in a newspaper or a magazine, and everyone laughed. If something true or profound seeped in her sentences she quickly erased the feeling by telling a joke or something equally meaningless.
Poor Joseph looked at her from across the room, madly in love – and madly jealous.

He went on loving with his wife even when Rose developed a terrible crush for a very handsome and very married test pilot. For a while she actually thought to leave her husband and to elope with Peter, but the guy was wise enough to talk her – and himself – out of such a craziness. He then asked to be assigned to a different place of work, and she stayed where she was. Hurt, abandoned and resentful… and still adored by Joseph, who knew everything but preferred not to tell her. Their marriage survived; a war came and went, but children never came, so Rose didn’t have to share her husband’s affection with anyone.

Joseph died of a stroke at the age of eighty-five, and his last word was his wife’s name. Rose went on remarkably well. In her last years she had decided to love just herself and no one else, which was why she lived safely until ninety-seven. On her deathbed she was still a beauty: perfectly groomed and made-up, long nails lacquered with purple varnish, in a black silk gown trimmed with lace. A queen.

What You Were

by Claudia Rey

Sunshine for my mornings
water for my garden
flour for my bread
smile for my mouth
laughter for my joy
peace for my mind
that’s what you were.
And what was I?
Wax for your floor
carpet for your feet
cup for you coffee
blanket for your nights?
Apparently not enough
since now you drink coffee
elsewhere.

WISHFUL HAIKU-ING

by Claudia Rey

A house full of books

lots of time to read them all

and peace in my heart

my Mozart, good wine,

passions, maybe, but different,

just wisdom at last…

and yet I’m too young

or at least not old enough

to give up loving.

Magic carpet

by Claudia Rey

I’m sitting in my accountant’s waiting room, ready to discuss my yearly income tax. Nothing could be less inspiring. And while waiting, I look at the carpet on the floor and loose myself in its colours. The carpet has a lozenge in the centre, surrounded by arabesques: stylized red flowers, Paisley leafs, smaller oval patterns in gold and cream and blue. And there’s a landscape in the lozenge, trees and a tiny river, a couple of goats grazing, birds in the sky, white cotton clouds. All  is simple and sort of rough, as if drawn by a kid. And yet life looks so easy in this idyllic peace… I close my eyes.

When I re-open them I don’t recognize anything around me. Where are the Van Gogh print, the console, the shrieking phones, the wheezing printer? Where does this cold breeze come from, and the smell of burnt wood? Where on earth am I?

 “Afghanistan” says a voice. “Near Herat.”

I turn around. No one.

“Here on your left” says the voice.

And there, sure enough, there are the river and the trees, and one of the goats looking at me with wise, round eyes.  A peculiar kind of goat: dark, corkscrew-like horns and long whitish fur.

“You can talk!” I say stupidly.

“Of course I can. In a dream everything is possible.”

“But… but I understand you! And you’re an Afghan goat!”

”You’re dreaming” repeats the animal. “And besides I am not a simple goat” it adds proudly. “I’m a markhor. I eat snakes. I’m special.”

A talking, snake-eating goat. Disquieting. I must be dreaming for sure.

“Would you like a sip of water?” asks the goat. “It’s very clear and cold, it comes from that mountain over there.”

A goat with manners. Heavens. I look at my suit, at my high heels. I can’t see myself kneeling on the bank to drink directly from the river. “Hum, maybe… but how can I…?”

“Oh. Sorry, I don’t have anything for you to drink from. But I could ask my shepherd, he certainly has a water-bag”

A  water-bag made with goatskin, I thing with a shiver. I shake my head. “Never mind. I have to go back anyway.” If I can go back, that is.

The goat laughs. “Don’t you like it here? Why should you go back? And to where?”

“Well, back home!” I say. I probably sound like a frightened baby.

“Are you really sure?” is the wry answer.

Is this crazy animal going to keep me here forever? I think in a fit of panic. I shake my head again, violently. And all of a sudden a gust of wind ruffles the trees and the goat’s fur and my hair… and I find myself in the waiting room again.

Safe. What a relief. And what an absurd daydream. I must be really tired – or really concerned about my income.

“Ms. F. can receive you now” says the secretary. Then she looks curiously at me. “Is it very windy outside?”

“Windy? No, not at all. Why are you asking?”

“Well, excuse me, but… you are not so well groomed as usual, and there are some strange leaves in your hair.”

MI AMOR, MI AMARGURA

by Claudia Rey

If I ever write a book
no doubt
I’ll dedicate it to you.
You, who inspired me
but gave me insecurity
along with happiness and tears
doubt and laughter
love and bitter loneliness
in the end.
Amor y amargura
like a Mexican song.