Pitayas

-PITAYAAAAS!! – Yelled that familiar voice of a seasonal stranger. A voice that sounded rough, rehearsed, tired and thirsty. The tool that the man wearing old style leather huarache shoes and a hat made out of old palm straws uses to announce the arrival of the most ephemerae fruit of my childhood.

–PITAYAAAS!! – sounded again, this time closer, this time clearer. The air smelled humid, warmer as the heat of the afternoon started to peak down. This was the middle of May; when it gets warm enough to get everyone in a bad mood and also not far enough into the year for having a tempestuous monsoonal storm to cool things down in those late afternoons of my childhood. And then again –PITAYAAAS!!

The noises inside the house seemed to have suddenly diminished with the announcement of the Pitayero. The man dressed in white manta pants and shirt with a red paliacate or ribbon tied to his waist. Like in a well-known performance, el Pitayero carries all of the pitayas on a huge straw basket skillfully well balance on the top of his head. Inside the house we all knew that in a matter of seconds, he would sit in the same corner that year after year, he used to sell his precious fruit, and neighbors would avalanche towards the humble, yet most sought after person in the block.

 -PITAYAAAS!! – sounded again, clear and settled, and in an instant, the children inside the house would have to start a well rehearsed performance of their own; to beg their mother for money to be able to afford the delicious treats. The truth is that the mother enjoyed Pitayas as much as the children did, but they were also expensive. As she heard the noises in the house after having heard the announcement of the pitayero, she knew she would need to skillfully negotiate for a way to break even on this seasonal nuisance. –PITAYAAAS!! And as sounds of heavy metal doors started making sounds of opening and closing in the outside as neighbors rushed out to greet the seller, the children left their geography book, notepads and pencils down and rushed over to the master bedroom, where the mother was taking her afternoon siesta, now prepared.

They knew that pitayas were only available for very little time, and that this was a battle they wouldn’t have to fight for at least another year, so they screamed as strongly as the pitayero himself: PITAYAAAS!! Mother agreed to go out and be the sole trader for this precious loot. She was good at bargaining. I felt guilty for having unleashed this beast. This is probably why nowadays I do not like bargaining at all.

Mother came back with a blue plastic bucket filled with these enormous bright scarlet fruits as we looked with astonishment. How she had managed to get so many I prefer not know, I thought to myself. The pitayas were then triumphantly displayed in the while ceramic fruit basket that typically sat filled with wax fruit in the middle of the main table.

And as I took my pitaya and placed it in my plate and was ready to take the first bite of this rare treat I heard –PITAYAAAS!! Once and twice, and even more; each time further away, each time dimmer than before. And this is how I would bid farewell to the pitayero wishing him well until next year.

These are the shades of the memories that my beautiful land of coconuts, limes and palm trees left tattooed in my soul; for Colima, my childhood memories and our pitayas.

Aquellas noches

Como en aquellas noches, te miré fíjamente, preguntándome si aún me piensas,
Como en aquellas noches, me pensé fíjamente, preguntándome si te merezco,
Como en aquellas noches, te lloré eternamente, preguntándome el por qué,
Como en aquellas noches, me perdí en mis deseos, y me mató la esperanza

Y es que aquellas noches se parecen tanto a éstas; a pesar de que han habido ya tantas primaveras,
Y es que en estas noches aun te miro; y te pienso, y te lloro, y me pregunto ese por qué.
El por qué te perdí; entre tantos deseos, entre tantas memorias, en mi eterna esperanza.

Y es así que en estas noches aún huelo tu ausencia entre el frió aroma del invierno,
Y como también veo tus sombras, entre la leve luz del sol que apenas sale,
Y como recuerdo la amargura del amor perdido, y siento el miedo de la soledad,
Y es así que reconozco, que desde ese entonces soy la mitad de lo que fui.

El resto de mi, te lo llevaste tu, y como en aquellas noches, ni cuenta te diste.

my moment

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It is that unexpected overwhelming moment in which your mind clears out, in which the mist evaporates, and in which you are certain… My time has come.

How many times I heard your tone as a prelude to a farewell; and for how many.

The object of its meaning always changed. As people left, drifted away, they left me with my dreams behind, my soul begging for a chance, crippled, sleepless, trapped.

But now I heard it again and it overwhelmed me, it reminded me of the feelings, but it feels different. As people left, drifted away, left me behind, I was forever changed, and so were they.

It is that moment in which your insides shrink in an involuntary movement, your eyes close, your face changes color and a tear runs out down your face.

That moment, an unexpected moment of an announced redemption; long overdue, long desired and that feels just right.

Televisions

Sunday, March 6th 2005. Circa 3:00 a.m.
Halifax, Nova Scotia

The North-Atlantic winter weather can have the same temperament of a cat. Sometimes it is mild, docile and loving, but some other times, it slaps you in the face with sharp, painful coldness that makes you chill to the bone. This night was on the latter category.

That evening had started with a plan; a practical approach to saying good bye. There would be no sleep, we decided.

After having spent an evening of food, drinks, friends, speeches, salsa dancing and tapas, we knew it was time to prepare our minds, to gain strength, to stay awake and to stay together for the one that was about to leave. We had walked half the city trying to get things organized, barely making it in one piece to our headquarters; the ground was icy and covered with snow so the pilgrimage wasn’t easy.

As three of us, a Mexican, an Italian and a Serbian sat on top of a bed waiting in relative silence for a call that would give us a green light to initiate the mechanical process of farewell, we told silly stories, sipped some tea and fought a difficult battle; to stay awake.

In an instant, a cell phone rang; and just like a whistle that in the past would announce a fleet of workers that their work-shift had started, we bundled up, took what was left of our spirits and walked out the back door, down the stairs on a shaky wooden structure covered with snow and ice; and tripping in between the sea of frozen soil, we made our way a few blocks away to the house of the one that was about to leave.

As we difficultly climbed up the extra-slippery driveway of the Victorian-looking orange home, we made ourselves welcome into the large eat-in kitchen; two things made my eyes dilate with astonishment: On one side, there were 5 or 6 huge boxes and pieces of luggage waiting patiently to be carried an ocean away into a foreign life. On the other side, an army of pigs, gazing at us from all angles of the kitchen, vigilant, looking as if about to charge in the least expected moment. I was tired.

It was then that I saw it, right there, behind some multicolored luggage that looked like if it could explode with the minimum unattended movement that an enormous 29-inch old-style television sat quietly, amid the controlled chaos.

In any other circumstances, I would have used my most powerful talents nursed by being raised a catholic in order to persuade the one that was about to leave not to take that thing along, as I knew it would probably be me who would have to bring it into one of the vehicles; but I knew that this was not an option, she was going back to Cuba. I just looked at the Serbian one and silently communicated my resignation.

Suddenly she emerged; like if she had just being brought back to life by some evil magical spell, the one that was about to leave came into the kitchen with her arms hanging heavily on either side of her body, visibly sad, but with a mission in mind. Her hair was a little mess, barely held by an old hair-band; she had the looks of an announced redemption, tired, afraid.

As the evening began its subtle transformation into dawn, we proceeded to act as little insects carrying each and every one of the packages right inside the trunk of an older vehicle and to the back of a pick-up utility truck; a collective massive effort being executed by the Serbian, the Mexican and the boyfriend of the one that was about to leave. package after package, pound after pound, memory after memory.

And as we were about to finish, with our backs broken and with an increasing sense of time just dripping out of the palm of our hands, the one that was about to leave asked for a private moment with her boyfriend, so we moved back to that kitchen of pig-hell.

With nothing better to do in mind, I started gazing at every possible detail found on the yellow walls of the kitchen, the dark green accents on the rims of the cupboards, and of course, the pigs; until my eyes reached a corner of the room and with an expression of horror I noticed; we forgot the television!

In a decisive impetuous moment I looked directly at the eyes of the Serbian to give the news; our eyes met once again and without saying a word, we moved near that television to finish the ordeal. The television was a big, heavy square and had an odd shape which made the process of coordinating the carrying dance even more awkward, we had a challenge in our hands and an excuse to distract our minds.

Slowly we raised and difficultly stood up holding the heavy box in our hands and arms and headed over to the door out to the slippery driveway.

The Serbian one was at the front, coordinating the pace and direction of the delicate operation. One by one, we first defeated a series of three steps on a small staircase that lead us into the paved dark driveway. What happened next was not what we planned; as the Serbian started her descend into the 30-degree angled driveway she noticed two things: The early signs of dawn and the icy soil.

As the Serbian’s feet started moving without any intention, sliding slowly down the man-made slope, the Mexican stood for a second until he too was trapped by the traction-less soil. They stood quiet, rigid, like a statue erected in honor of two thieves.

In an instant, the silence was broken by a laugh. The Mexican could not find something better to do than to laugh of the disgraceful situation they got into, shortly after, the Serbian joined.

What else can you do when you are caught by the effects of the North Atlantic winter, frozen in the act, sliding down while carrying a huge television in the eerie days of the morning?

There was no call for help, no room for strategies; they just quite literally, went down with the flow; sliding in what some may have found to be a sublime dance, laughing in automatic mode, trapped by the moment, laughing at the moment, their misfortune.

As their strength began to fade and accepted their faith with at least a good sense of humor, two strong arms came to the rescue; They held the television, they stopped the involuntary descend of our feet, they were heroic, they belonged to the boyfriend of the one that was about to leave; and in an instant and with unmatchable skill, he took the big, dark, square object off our hands, brought it down the driveway, and put it on the back of his truck.

In the meantime we were left behind laughing of our disgraceful attempt; of friends leaving; of televisions.

If tomorrow starts without me

If tomorrow starts without me, I want to remain inside my words;
Inside the stories that I told, inside those moments that I wrote.

If tomorrow starts without me, I want my voice to exist beyond this point;
Inside the music that I sang, inside the sounds of my dreams, my hopes.

If tomorrow starts without me, let tomorrow be a better day because I was there.
Let me know that I have touched you; that you have learned, that we have grown.

For tomorrow will always be there and a new day will always rise.
If today is my last day, then let it be, but make it worth.

Make the last hours show me the love that I once felt, the promises of dreams, the hopes.
If tomorrow starts without me, don’t forget me, because as long as I can touch you, I’ll be here.

Dark Eyes

Two dark eyes looked directly, fixed, almost like in a state of trance straight into mine.

The room looked gloomy, filled with the colors of a late afternoon; tones of orange and yellow gently touched the furniture that lay inside the living room. The silence was sharp, almost too uncomfortable and very atypical for the entertainment protocol that was set in that old house.

On the coffee table there was a tea set, carefully placed on a silver tray that also sparkled with the slow moving light coming from outside; slithering in between the curtains and the hanging plants that captured most of those golden tones.

The cups on top of the tray were made of old porcelain but did not match; some had little tiny roses painted in pink with golden accents on the rim, while others had blue Asian illustrations that were hard to make out from afar. The cups were empty.

Next to them there was a teapot, round and compact, with steam coming out of its spout and the streams of tea bags rolling out of one side tied down to the holder on the opposite end; waiting patiently to steam the tea into the water.

The silence suddenly was broken by the sound of an old clock sitting on top of one of the side tables; a symmetric sequence of tic-tacs that came out from the wooden structure which hosted the mechanism of that clock. The face of the clock showed the time. It was quarter to seven, one hour ahead of the actual time.

This sudden noise made it clear that the silence was a painful reminder of the state of those two pair of eyes, looking at each other, quietly, intensively. My hand moved, and reached over for the tea pot, pouring it gently into the china cups, making crisp little sounds as the liquid filled their contents and tainted their pale shiny walls with an amber-looking color, releasing their warmth and aroma.

I sat quietly as I did this, glimpsing over into your eyes every now and then; contemplating my actions with care until I noticed my hands. The skin showed its time; they were not soft or smooth anymore, instead, wrinkles portrayed a field of memories that started flowing into my head; they shook a little with the weight of the teapot, with the sadness.

As I looked back into your eyes, mine began to dilate as tears started invading their edges. - I remember. I said softly. -I remember how this started, and for some reason, it makes me sad. I said as I brought my eyes down into my hands that now held one of the cups, sitting quietly on my lap.

The other set of eyes showed no emotion, they remained unchanged.
My voice started breaking with the sudden stream of emotions that flooded my mind. –I always wondered where life would take us; I said softly. –I dreamed of the adventures, of the possibilities, of the love, of you.

As I lifted my face, our eyes met again. –I always wondered what it would have been; I added. And with those words, I withdrew.

The shadows of the sun had changed to shadows and no more. The room was dimly lit by a single lamp that remained forever-on sitting on the top of the old foyer table that marked the entrance to the house and as my eyes put away yours setting you back inside your little lacquered box that kept our secret. I proceeded to carefully lay inside my broken dreams, a few tears, and your picture.

Before I locked the lid, I looked back at your intense dark eyes and with a smile invited you back for tea, tomorrow, at the usual time, with the usual tea set, just you, I, and the broken dreams locked inside this box.

-Good night. I whispered.