Nostalgias

The dream haunted her all morning. It was one of those vivid dreams that are remembered clearly, and that linger throughout the day with mild attacks of flashbacks. She felt the intrusive remnants of last night’s images, like a stubborn hangover that refuses to leave, jolting her body with swift pangs of pain; it wore her down physically, mentally. She poured the black coffee into her cup, as if to purge the feeling away, and sat down at the head of the long wooden table. She sipped cautiously, both elbows on the table, her hands clasping the red cup – a gift her daughter had given her two years ago upon returning for winter break. It tasted bitter – as bitter as that dream. As the coffee cooled down, her sips became throaty gulps, and she stared forward to that painting of Carlos Gardel that once belonged to her father. She looked with deep intent at the man’s broken smile, his handsome brown eyes, and felt prisoner of his gaze. She began to lose herself in the swirl of that tango song that her dad used to love. Sitting at the head of the long wooden table, her mind crossed over to the realm of the past.

Nostaaaaalgias

De escuchar su risa loca

De sentir junto a mi boca

Como un fuego su respiración

She went back to that dreary September afternoon of 1999. That day she had felt a peculiar anxiety, as if the air possessed an intolerable secret – a forewarning of sorts, struggling to be released. Her lifeless eyes looked beyond the half- opened windows of the car, the scenery of green mountains merging into blurriness. Her husband clasped the steering wheel with the firm grip of his hands, as he talked about the forestation of Ponce, but his words were faint nuances that rushed by her, with the same speed of the cars that they left behind.

The cat jumped onto the table and flapped its long and lanky tail against her face, shaking her violently from her trance. She gasped, startled, and extended her right arm to pet the cat’s orange coat. She stood up with lethargy, and walked toward the sink to put her cup down. She reached over and retrieved a cigarette from the carton, sat down at the head of the table, and slid the marbled ashtray to her side. She lit her cigarette, and slowly inhaled. The smoke rose upward in a straight line, and dispersed throughout the dining room in graceful undulations. Her eyes followed the dancing fumes in amazement, as they carried her over to the smoldering past.

Anguuuuustias

De sentirme abandonado

Y sentir que otro a su lado

Pronto, pronto le hablará de amor

She flicked her cigarette out the window as the car swiveled onto the graveled road. They stepped out of the car and walked toward the house’s entrance, where her mother stood, staring at her with the same judging eyes that judged her during her youth. “Y papi?” (where’s daddy), she inquired. Two minutes with her mother were more than enough, and she was ready to leave, but she wanted her father. She missed his stern, yet comforting company. They had not spoken in weeks, and the anticipation, along with the suffocating presence of her mother, was pushing her patience over the edge. She sat on the living room’s raggedy sofa, as the three gathered round to make small talk. “Y papi?,” she wondered.  

She put out her cigarette, tapping it three times against the ashtray. It was a cloudy morning, and the air was redolent of morning rain. A headache had started to rip through her temples, so she closed the curtains to hide the daylight glow, and sat on the leather sofa, pushing her head back and letting a sigh escape. Her eyes were fixed at the ceiling, following the circling motions of the fan’s blades, and she spun with them to the warp of the past.

Desde mi triste soledad

Veré caer las rosas muertas

De mi juuuveeentud

Suddenly, with that powerful presence that he distinctly possessed, her father walked in, and as he sat down, a realization struck her like a bolt of lightning, leaving her speechless and afraid.  His skin complexion had turned into a sickly pale yellow, his eyes bulged, and the overwhelming strength of his body had fumed like the smoke of her newly lit cigarette. As her mother and husband carried on with their ordinary conversation, her eyes met and locked with those new bulging ones of her father. There was nothing that needed to be said. His stare communicated what he did not communicate to anyone else, and she understood it all.

She stood up and slowly walked over to her room, dragging her furry slippers through the floor. On top of her nightstand was a picture of her father in his army days – brown-eyed, tall and handsome. She picked it up and dusted it; she had not held it in years. His eyes locked with hers, and they both smiled, as if the most important secret was buried within their gaze.