Lo malo de llorar cuando uno pica cebolla no es el simple hecho de llorar, sino que a veces uno empieza, como quien dice, se pica, y ya no puede parar.
One is never truly alone, even when our only company is our thoughts, because what are thoughts if not the memory of interactions with others?
The only thing that had saved her then was knitting. In prison she had become a compulsive knitter. Knitting allowed her to unite, to connect, to integrate. With every stitch she held on to dear life. Threads hold us together.
Words have life, memory, when you hear them you travel to the past.
What she liked the most about drinking was not being present, that feeling of self-evasion, of disconnection, of liberation, of escape. Alcohol offered her an excellent alternative to being herself without actually dying.
She felt love: real Love. The kind of love that makes no distinction, that doesn’t separate, that is not contained within a body. She cried from so much love.
Surely the heart is not a fitting place to house hatred. But where is its place? I don’t know. That is one of the universe’s Unknowns. It would seem that the God’s truly delight in messing things up, for in not having created a particular spot to house hatred, they have provoked eternal chaos. Hatred us forever hunting down a refuge, poking it’s nose where it shouldn’t, taking over sites reserved for others, invariably forcing out love.
Era el producto de un trabajo artesanal que desgraciadamente estaba pasando de moda, junto con los vestidos largos, las cartas de amor y los valses.
La necesidad es la madre de todos los inventos y todas las posturas.
Those hands had rescued her from horror and she would never forget it.
Solo las ollas saben los hervores de su caldo.
Ironing was an act of annihilation in which wrinkles would die and give way to order: something she required more than anything.
I wonder how much time had passed between the moment God said “Let there be light” and the appearance of light? Sometimes, the mere difference of a single second between one event and another can be enough to turn our lives around one hundred and eighty degrees.
But there was nothing more transparent to her than the fear of not being loved, the fear of being unseen, of being ignored.
She loved to put her hands in the water and repeat her mantra: “Just for today. Just for today I will choose water over alcohol. Just for today I will allow water to cleanse me, to purify me.
Prensar, destrozar y despellejar eran algunas de sus actividades favoritas.
Lupita thought that people who didn’t dance were selfish and lonely.
Look ma’am, those narcos that mutilate, torture, and kill others are no longer a part of us. They’re no longer part of any family or community; they act against everyone. They are worth nothing. But when you bury a narco, you allow him to be a part of you again. He becomes dust, food, our brother once more. His body – dissolved in the earth – now sustains life again, instead of destroying it.
Love is a verb. One demonstrates one’s love through one’s actions. And a person can only feel loved when someone else shows their love with kisses, hugs, caresses, and gifts. A lover will always promote the physical and emotional well-being of the person he loves.
Do you hear how the sand sings?