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

Mi madre no era un arrullo ni un regazo

Era un sable, una saeta, un argumento

Bella, aguda, felina

We load the car with your grief and mine

Two suitcases and the guitar

A brie aux truffes set the disturbance in motion

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

A dogbituary

It would be a voyage, she said

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

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

Crush lavender seeds in your fingers, and then, eyes closed, take a deep breath into your hands