My mama asked me one day, “didn’t you love her?”
Her words were like an ocean in my lungs, so cold and deep, but instead of taking my breath they just wash all the pain to the shore. I was left there, stark like an old lighthouse, a witness of the tsunami that carries carcasses, and I began to laugh, funny isn’t it to laugh when we are hurt? Then tears came down as salty seawater caresses the sand.
“I did not love her enough, mom,” said I. “I did not not love her enough when there was a chance. I did not became enough when there was still time.”
She took a deep breath, cupped my face and said, “Listen, son: People are water, they must go wherever they are destined to go, to the ocean. You are a lake on the highest peak of the mountain, she is a water that once crossed your waves. But remember this, you cannot touch the same water again. She must be refined by the days, purified by evaporation of experience. She must have gone away, but I know she will come back, maybe changed, but she will return as certain as the rain. Now that she is still away, be enough to yourself, widen your surface, deepen your depths, so that when the day she comes back, she will need not to go again. Be her ocean.”
