Vera

The path is wild, riddled with moss and marsh and seemingly dry, thin pine trees, their leaves only on the top parts, closer to the light. The sun’s minimal here, clearly. But the moss and grass and ferns are a universe of their own. Like walking on satin. The higher we climbed, the more the moss gave way to blueberries. We were walking on blueberries. We snacked on them, marveled at them, laughingly thought we’re fruit pickers now, and oh, how many euros we would have earned per hour. Blueberries upon blueberries upon blueberries.

We shed the hastiness of booking hotels and going on road trips at every instance of a long weekend. I embraced the satisfaction to be found from staying put. There is nothing we are missing. It's here, right in our kitchen and living room and loft living room and bedrooms and dining room and billiards room and pantry and balcony and our wide, wide, wide garden, our space breathing and moving with us—a perpetual push and pull of mess and structure. I just need to settle into the nothingness of a weekend, and it can stretch itself into what feels like an entire week of pure family. Home in July, 2026

But gloomy skies have something to give in this part of the city, too. Like, for example, a reason to walk with head lowered, a pedestrian careful not to walk on deep puddles. Or, a reason to sleep early. Or, a reason to wear brown. And black. Better yet, a reason to hug oneself in layers and layers of clothing, a walking body heavy with the weight of damp, long-sleeved tops. It's my month of 2006's leftovers. People came and went. Mostly went. Men who need some time off to climb the mountains and spend time in seclusion before coming back down stripped of whatever baggage they were carrying. Sisters who will never give you their trust because "you will never grow up, can't even fix your closet and can't even arrange your books and papers." Fathers who will always have to leave, that seeing-off at the airport that perpetually signals the end of the holidays. I'd like to think that this isn't sadness. It's only that dimly lit Christmas tree, blinkin...

  ...are all in black. dull black on a rug left hanging, home, 2001  Last night, I went out of the house and slept inside the van for at least two hours. Ate Ivy was very much upset and angry with me (because of very much valid reasons, yes...). I felt like the house suddenly shrank like that little globe of a "lemonsito;" and, mind you, it didn't feel good inside, my senses confused whether I was the seed or the juice evaporating towards nowhere in particular. With the middle seat conveniently slapped down halfway its length, I rested my body. "I want to suffocate and die," was that cliché chant inside my head, and then out of my mouth; like those children's games with songs in them, the ones that you keep repeating, in a monotonous kind of way, the ones you absentmindedly sing in front of your breakfast plate. The fluorescent lamp of the parking area, with hazy light patterns through the tinted glass, caught my attention, and I turned to chanting, "An...