But for a short breath -- some three years, some one thousand ninety five days, some twenty six thousand two hundred and eighty hours, some one million five hundred seventy six thousand eight hundred minutes, some ninety four million six hundred seventy thousand eight hundred fifty six seconds -- we both exist on this planet. We are given three years of time to exist together: half for which I can not speak or walk. Of those three years of time, we spend zero years, zero days, zero hours, zero minutes, zero seconds together.
Now it has been some sixteen years, some six thousand eighty days, some one hundred forty five thousand nine hundred twenty nine hours, some eight million seven hundred fifty five thousand seven hundred forty minutes, some five hundred twenty five million three hundred forty four thousand four hundred fifteen seconds. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
Nineteen September two thousand and seventeen, estimated magnitude seven point one, epicenter just south of the city of Puebla.
Jojutla, a small and rural town, is violently shaken by the rubbing of two of Earth’s tectonic plates. His house stands, but the structure is irreparably damaged.
Nine people lived in that house once -- one father, one mother, seven sons and daughters.
The government inspectors forbid the sons and daughters from entering the house. It is eaten by a giant, yellow machine. The plaster and stone swallow everything inside: the embroidered handkerchiefs and fine linen guayaberas, the bits of paper scribbled on with blue ink, the boxes of yellowed photographs.
Your remnants, swallowed into the rubble.
You gave my father your own name.
You gave me your own name.
I was born in the chill of November. My father called you, his own father, told you about the rolls of fat on my nine pound body, my dark hair, and my beginning on the most inopportune of Saturday evenings. My father took my picture, had it developed at the Walgreens, and mailed it the two thousand one hundred and eighty two miles between us.
In Jojutla, you pick out a speckled yarn, white with flecks of blues, pinks, and greens. You make a knot, tie it up to a tree, and weave. You go to the town market and pick out a doll, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, because I am American. You wrap it. You write my name on the box, with an ‘e’ at the end, because I am American. You mail it the two thousand one hundred and eighty two miles between us.
Es posible que yo te conozca; que conozca los cachitos de tu vida, que yo vea una foto de una foto tuya, en el celular de tu hija, que yo oiga las historias y anécdotas, que yo sueñe con tu cara. Pero no puedo oir tu voz. No puedo tocar tu piel. Y es imposible que tu me conozcas.
It is possible for me to know you; to learn from the little glimpses into your life; to see a photograph of a photograph of you, small and blurry on your daughter’s cell phone, to hear the stories, to imagine the wrinkles on your face. Yet, I can not hear your voice. I can not touch your hand. And it is impossible for you to know me.
How can any word I say traverse the time between us?
Y que quiero decirte? Primero, que te quiero. Por que me hiciste una maca, y la mandaste a Chicago. Porque rehusabas pisar pie en los Estados Unidos, pero me mandaste una maca.
What would I want to tell you? First, that I love you. Because you made me a hammock, and you mailed it the two thousand one hundred and eighty two miles between you and Chicago, you and me. Because you refused to step foot in this country, but you sent me a hammock.
Quiero que sepas que hablo Ingles, que pienso en Ingles. Pero mi corazon vibra en Espanol, en el brillo de sus silabas, la dulzura de sus vocales. Vibra en tu idioma.
I want you to know that I speak and think in English. But I love Spanish, the light in the syllables, the sweetness in the vowels. I love your language.
Quiero que sepas que tengo frio. Tu, que naciste en el calor de Morelos, que deleitaste en el sol del verano, que te enrollabas en sabanas aun en las noches mas calientes del año; quiero que sepas que la ciudad que he escogido para mi hogar me congela los pies, la nariz, las orejas. Quiero que sepas que me encanta ver la nieve caer a la tierra, y el cielo, blanco, blanco, blanco. Quiero que sepas que tengo frio.
I want you to know that I am cold. You, born in the heat of Morelos, who so loved the sun of summer, who wrapped yourself up in blankets even on the hottest nights of the year; I want you to know that I am cold. The city I choose as my home chills my feet, my nose, my ears. I want you to know that I love watching the snowflakes float down to the ground, and the sky above, white, white, white.
How can any word I say traverse the time between us?