today i was cleaning out my books, dividing them into stacks of keep, sell, and haven't read, when i stumbled across two old books i couldn't even remember reading. books that had been sitting on a dusty bookshelf in the garage. as i flipped through them a letter fell out from each of them. i laughed as i recognized the writing on one of them. it was an old love letter from a boy i had dated. the letter didn't say anything significant and it made me laugh at the words "i love you baby", scrawled across the margin. my lips curved into a small nostalgic smile as i tried to remember when exactly i had received the letter, but couldn't. i love you. such a simple phrase and yet, at that time i had no clue what it truly meant. i laughed again and moved on to the next and saw that it was a note i had passed back and forth between a friend, a friend who's hand writing i didn't recognize anymore. the note talked about the weekend and what friends had gone to vertigo's the weekend prior. thinking about that place brought to mind bright lights, music, cucarachas, and enanitos verdes. how funny a habit i had to put old notes in a book. years ago i never would have thought about finding them later. when i was done reading i put them aside not sure what to do with them. they weren't important and didn't bring to mind an exact memory. as i finished with the books the two old crumbled pieces of paper lay to the side. and i thought, i think that i'll keep this habit. letters in books. i can't remember the last time i wrote a letter or received one (which is sad in itself i must say), but the next one will go in a book. perhaps for the next "i love you baby" ...
Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacÃan. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
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