Chilled like wine, the evening prepares the sky

The night air is moving in. If a neatly trimmed lawn hosted a firepit, I would gladly start it. For now, rampant lavendar violets and white ghost-like dandelion heads float above a wildly unkept lawn. From where I sit, on the wicker loveseat that previously resided in the loneliness of my mother’s basement, I can hear the playful shouts of neighborhood children and am suddenly noticing the way trees have blossomed, seemingly overnight. I love this yard. I fell in love here in this yard, when things were still brown and sleeping.

Today my mind flashed back to my ex. I was mid-workout and something pure was streaming through my ipod when I thought back to the weak creature that I used to be. Momentarily, I lost sight of my reality and his angry screams filled my thought, the rage that was tangible in our old home. My poor kitten thrown across the room, my poor stepdaughter broken down by accusations and punishments. I felt like he hated me and at best, had a mild sense of annoyance and tolerance toward me. It was sick, the pathetic way he tried to gain my trust back. Like I was too dim-witted to recognize his efforts as fraudulent. Now in the light of true love, a pulsing truth is nourished and beats even stronger in my heart; I am not those lies I was once told. I freed MYSELF to enjoy my life. La vida es un carnaval, como dice Celia. Gratitude as a word does not capture the love I feel for myself and for God.  

I am an overcomer (through Jesus, thanks to God). I have overcome already. I am scarred, I am a warrior wrapped in a cloak. You can feel my spirit and sense patience, focus. My spirit is enchanting and hidden, it belongs to the earth and my ancestors and most of all, to God.

Flamenco

His beard is more of a mustache. It is elaborate and ornate, curling up at the edges like fancy calligraphy.  The edges are a silhouette in the dark candle-lit restaurant because his head is dipped slightly at an angle, as if he is studying the chords glowing from the Spanish guitar he strums. But he’s not looking. His eyes are closed blissfully and no smile breaks his tranquil face. 

The 50s style diner was a quick convert to rich tapestries of red and black; dresses and cuadros reminiscent of women who passed down a generational secret to their daughters. 

I look at you. You look like how I feel, captivated at Lisa’s movement. Her skirt follows hips, lower back and strong arms that make a statement each time they snap together in a magnetic clap above her head. Red roses adorn both girls’ hair, a sharp contrast against the black latin features and olive skin. The dance is older than its stories and I think it reminds me of you; timeless, easy, existent. Carrying on like a tradition with no question. Enchanting and dependable.  Strong like the stomping of the dancers’ feet, patient like the guitarista. 

Laughing, sharing red wine darker than the roses, we speak of Lisa’s abuelita and indulge the owner showing us photos of the girls in their youth. We hold hands in the night when it’s time to go. My soul has seldom been so peaceful.