Uncrafted

You held silver in your hands
an azure shiny sapphire
in the centre of the ring.

Both the farmer and his wife
advised you to treat with care
for they thought of what you had
the most precious of all gems. 

Trading beautiful for handy
alas,
you silly, clumsy blacksmith
forged the ring into a knife.

With a sharp and pointy blade
ended up hurting yourself
wrecked a fine and worthy stone
splinters spreading everywhere.

 Beyond question, her own fault
she preferred him over many:

The goldsmith and other experts
with industrious, gentle hands
wanted the joy for themselves
to polish the striking crag.

Yet she chose the cloddish blacksmith
over other tender craftsmen.
Such a pity what his rough hands
and her naivety took to pieces.

Now on the wooden table
among bits and drops of blue
sad-looking lay the remains
of what was once a stunning jewel.

From the Ashes

- Chapter I / Draft -

Eyes red and watery, her hands trembling around a cup of tea that had been served too long ago and was not warm anymore.

She had gotten used to the rapid steps of the nurses, click-clacking their way in and out of the emergency room all night long. This time she heard slower steps, there was no hurry anymore.

The cup slid a bit under her sweaty hands when the door opened and the doctor came in. He was a young man but he looked older than he was after years of long night shifts and lack of sleep.

With a quick move of her hand she tried to wipe off the wetness in her eyes and cheeks. The moment he was opening the door, Dr. Newman got a glimpse of what she was doing and his expression softened immediately. He was still nervous.

- Hi there Diane, how are you feeling?

Only at this point had he taken a good look at her. She looked pale and fragile. Her skin reminded him of his grandmother's old leather purse: dry and rough. Her appearance was not that different from so many other corpses he had seen before, except this one was alive. Sort of.

Diane just nodded and looked at him in the eyes. She thought it was kind from him to ask, but there was no good answer to this question and he already knew this. He was just being polite.  She had also lost all her strength a couple of hours ago and did not feel like wasting any energy in replying.

The doctor reached some papers on the little white table next to her bed. He had to move the magazines away to find them and proceeded to read them carefully, making notes every now and then. For a while, all you could hear in the room was the sound of his pen scraping Diane's medical reports.

Ignis

You can see me

playing with flames
about to get burnt.

Tell me not to
or push me further:

It hurts either way.

Soup

 

It’ll be over soon, she said.

Grandma told you to never drink the soup as warm as it is served.

But it’s been 15 years and it still burns as hell.

Homesickness (or Stockholm Syndrome)

I miss Caracas. I miss driving in the highway at the Avila, hearing the birds sing every morning on my way to university. The unceasing good weather is a good reason to live regardless of the circumstances. Wild parrots flying around my faculty if I got there early enough to see them before they took off to the mountain. Hiking on Sundays with my dogs. Eating empanadas with friends before class every morning while discussing the latest political happening with the usual accompanying indignation.

 

(The Cloud Shepherd by Jean Arp at Universidad Central de Venezuela)

 

I miss the sunny days, the busy streets and the sound of chaos. I miss the love-hate relationship with the subway and cursing the motor-bikers who scratch your wing mirror in an attempt to cheat traffic jams. Book club meetings at the botanical garden of my old university and drinking "chicha" ( rice drink) near the Aula Magna while watching other people graduate and take pictures; naively thinking that would be me in 3 years. I miss being at a one hour ride from the Caribbean.

I even miss protesting on the streets and watching on the news which other TV channel was shut down by the government and who else from the opposition was sent to jail. Waiting impatiently for the results of an election, ingenuously hoping that corruption, ignorance and greed wouldn't win again, that at least fraud wouldn’t be so obvious this time.

There is a positive side to living in a politically and socially unstable place: The sense of helplessness takes weight off your shoulders. It makes you realize that despite how much you worry, there are just too many things out of your control. All you can do is sit back and enjoy the now.

Living in such generalized chaos and getting used to uncertainty forces you to appreciate the present because it's all you have. I miss that. And I even secretly miss having an excuse to blame the government for all my problems.
 

Looking at the picture of a place you love so much feels odd when you know  you can't come back. At least not for now, at least not in a long time. It makes you feel like a piece of yourself is missing because it's still over there. But it's fine: that's where it wants to stay.