My daughter was born last week. I named her Rosalie because I don’t want to forget Dominica, and you, and the happiest year of my life. I actually wanted to name her after you but I’m not sure if I’d ever be able to handle it: to reproduce the vivid memory of you waving goodbye or us kissing in front of the Baobab tree, when you told me I was another David, that came, destroyed and be forever remembered.
I’m still sorry, Roseau. I really am.
(Inspired by the Baobab tree called Goliath that fell during Hurricane David, 1979)
I miss you slightly less than what people know, but slightly more than what you think.
Is it how it feels to be heartbroken, or is it just the distance?
2505 Broad Street
Barcelona, November 25, 2014
I know there’s fat chance you’d read this but I’m sending it anyway. You might have forgotten me, the girl you met and shared table with for churros and chocolate in a cafe near Museu Picasso.
I’m back in Barcelona. This alley reminds me of you and our talk all night long about losing the present to preserve the past of the future in words and monochromatic pictures. This city seems to keep those conversations, your excitement when you told me that my first name was your hometown; but unfortunately not your last name. Now I think I should’ve kissed you but, you know.. I was engaged back then.