Papi

No soy perfecta. Definitivamente no soy la imagen de la fortaleza hecha mujer, ni un pilar de voluntad que logra abstenerse de hombres que no valen la pena. No soy perfecta. Está claro que malgasto mi tiempo, que demasiadas veces por semana me sumerjo en el sillón amarillo de la sala de mi casa en estado de inercia total, y que me gusta leer los chismes irrelevantes de la vida de los famosos. No soy perfecta.

Podría cocinar más en casa, comer más orgánico, leer el New York Times todos los días en vez de dejar apilar las bolsitas azules en que viene en la entrada de mi casa; podría limpiar más a menudo, pintarme las uñas y usar pulseras. También, me haría bien no desesperarme cuando Amaru actúa de acuerdo a la activa y demandante naturaleza de un niño de dos años; podría ser más fuerte a la hora de prohibirle que duerma conmigo en mi cama.

Sin embargo, mi vida va tomando un ritmo que me gusta; no hago todo lo que puedo, pero hago mucho, y lo que hago lo disfruto, lo saboreo y lo añoro cuando todavía no llega. Siento que he comenzado lentamente a construir la vida que quiero para mi y para Amaru, y estoy dándome cuenta de que sí es posible...eso que dicen de la flor de Loto que nace del fango. Los que conocen mi corazón saben a lo que me refiero.

Desde lejos, siento como la efímera presencia de papi en mi vida me inspira y me motiva a ser una mejor mujer, inteligente como él, divertida como él, sensible como él. Hace poco también descubrí que le gustaba la fotografía; revisité todas las fotos de mi infancia y conocí su sensibilidad y el buen ojo que tenía.

El otro día mientras esperaba el tren, vi a una niña pequeña con los brazos colgados del cuello de su papá, sentada en sus piernas. Todo el cuadro gritaba amor y protección, e inevitablemente me dieron ganas de llorar. A veces me pregunto si me escuchas papi, si me quieres, si has llegado a conocerme desde tu nube remota. No sé si algún día tendré esa certeza, pero siento que mi capacidad de hacer lo mucho que hago habiendo tenido tan poco, proviene de un lugar remoto, ajeno a mí, de tu corazón y tus bellas manos, las cuales acompasadamente me llevan por la vida. Espero que estés orgulloso de mi, de lo lindo que es tu nieto Amaru, y de lo que he logrado hacer, por lo mucho que tu corta vida y eterna presencia me han regalado.

Erikita (como te gustaba llamarme)


Fotos tomadas por Papi

Letter for Tim

My dear Tim,

I am writing you your very first letter since your departure; thought I’d check on you to see if you like the new place. Is there a big monkey in the sky or however you used to call God? I tell you Tim, New York City can be so stressful that I envy the sense of relief you must be feeling. You left before I could say goodbye…that’s how we roll Timmy boy?...and I have not forgotten you promised to take my portrait!, but I guess you now have abundant beautiful subjects at the new place.

I am writing this letter while sitting on the Queens-bound N train; it reminds me of our rides on the L train heading to your apartment on Dekalb Avenue, and of how I stayed the night at your place after our third date, talk about a woman who cannot hold her horses! But I was too pulled in by our long conversations; you told me about having hippie parents, moving around a lot as a kid, and harboring the idea of moving to a cabin in the woods someday; you also talked about how good your mom’s apple pie was, the kind she baked at home in Alaska. I, kept talking with a thick Dominican accent about my blossoming love for the city and its eccentricities, and how Long Island was a soul-numbing place to be, to which you concurred by telling stories of living in a basement in Huntington, under the stairs, like Harry Potter…you said.

My hands are greasy and they are staining the ivory pages of my tiny notebook; I ate fritters just before taking the subway, and the aroma of fried oil reminded me of our second date, where you took me several places (New York City was the charming device you knew best), starting at the Angelika Theater to eating fried empanadas in Nolita. I am not surprised at how the smell of oil, such a small detail, lingers in my mind and reminds me of you…everything reminds me of you these days as I am reliving our memories while I walk the streets of the city.

This place is as busy as it has always been, but there is a palpable emptiness here, as if I could sense that one wonderful soul has left, and that there is one person less to appreciate the city’s beauty, its nitty-gritty ness, its often cold hearted nature. I have a profound love for this city, and I don’t know if I ever told you that you were one of the first people to instill that in me. Through your eyes I learned how to appreciate its many gifts; you took me to those hole in the wall restaurants in Soho and stinky bars on the Lower East Side, showed me the city like a local and talked to me about the beauty in the city’s dirt, and in the industrialness of neighborhoods like Brooklyn. I also love how you took notice of things that were seemingly unimportant and gave them some sort of relevance through careful recreation and creativity.

I particularly remember your sensitivity in how you complimented me simply but beautifully. I miss that. I miss how you would hold me close to you and tell me that I smell “pretty”, or the first time you told me you were falling in love with me because you couldn’t stop smelling my perfume on the t-shirt I wore the night before at your place. I, was equally allured by that unintelligible smell of yours, a smell of nothing but the sheer ruggedness of an effortlessly attractive man. Oh… and I could stare into those green eyes forever.

But, what I liked the most was that lovely fragility about you, how deeply you felt everything around you, and the lasting impact things had on you. It was this same fragility that made you pull away from things too intense, and often times turned life’s possibilities into perceived threats. This was the only reason why our relationship didn't last. Still, I think you were one perceptive fellow, whose keen insight stripped life’s cotidianities from its faux charm. And yet, despite this straightforward, naïve-less nature of yours, you were still passionate about life, and dove head first into things that attracted you.

It’s true what they say… that we can never escape who we are; your delicate nature and the complexities of this world were two elements seemingly unable to coexist. I think your heart was too sensitive for this often cruel city, and your passions and love kept being met by undeserving people. Beauty can be so deceiving.

I have to tell you that I am partly enraged, saddened and lost by your departure; this glimpse of you was not enough. I don’t know how to cope with this Tim. I don’t want my letters to be a burden on you or to stop you from enjoying your newfound peace, but I need some reassurance that you are ok. I know Tim lives; that soul was too beautiful to vanish, but I want to understand how things are for you now. I wont ask the whys because it will drive me nuts and I need the little faith that I have left; regardless, I keep looking for answers as to where your soul is and how I can keep it close to me. If you could find a way of providing me with these answers I would be the happiest woman in the world.

I am aware that I sound crazy by requesting the impossible, but I have always been a big believer in your creativity. I will keep my eyes open for your messages in the new wonderful things I will discover in New York City; I will leave my heart wide open to feel the humanity of those whom I photograph (I know how much you loved photographing people), and I also promise to stay very awake in my dreams, just in case you want to whisper something in my ear. I know I will see you again someday, but for now I have to keep on living this journey. I’ll make sure to enjoy my time here as much as possible, and I will tell you all about it someday. Meanwhile, enjoy yourself, float freely, and make sure to check up on me every once in a while…pretty please.


Love,


Erika


PS: this is the only picture I have of us