The clay pot

Letter to my father, Rodrigo Escobar Navia Today, the 6th of November in 2020, you would have turned 86. It is not by chance that I find myself here, in this library, reading Borges. How you loved Borges! So much so that I  scattered your ashes on the grave of the celebrated argentine, in Geneva’s…

Una vasija de barro

Hoy, 6 de noviembre de 2020, cumplirías 86 años. No es fortuito que me encuentre aquí en esta biblioteca leyendo a Borges. Cómo te gustaba Borges! Tanto que esparcí tus cenizas sobre la tumba del célebre argentino en el cimetière des rois en Ginebra.

Mo’ther (mudh-), n. A female parent.

My mother was neither cradle nor lap

She was a sword, an arrow, an argument

Beautiful, sharp, and feline

Neither refuge nor anchor, my mother was a battle

Preferiría ser árbol

Observo impotente el dolor, la violencia, la muerte

Y me digo que preferiría ser árbol

A step at a time

We load the car with your grief and mine

Two suitcases and the guitar

A home called Trudi

Money, power, titles, aesthetics, social class, or eloquence, never impressed her

The Therapist

It would be a voyage, she said

The destination: a more genuine, examined, less fragmented, version of myself

Beyondness

Where does the mind disappear to when bad news strikes us?