Before you leave, let me ask you an important question.

Are you afraid of falling because you don’t know where you would land
or because you do know?


Probably I’m on the Texts You Were About to Send

If you ever think to find me
Try your past writings
the ones written when you fell in love
and thought you’d never recovered

Try your recent writings
the ones written when you lost her

Probably I’m there

Probably I’m on your future writings
still waiting to be written

Probably I’m not there
and I’ve never been
and never will

Probably I’m on the texts you were about to send

but eventually discarded

[APLFD] Traders of Life


Dear Maera,

 Aren’t we all traders? Each day, we trade a piece of our existing selves with what becomes memories. We trade, piece by piece, a home built by our family and childhood friends and little monsters on the backyard. A home built of fairy tales and laughter, hugs and prayers, day trips to the beach and zoo. My home; by my Ayah and Bunda and hours of commuting to the capital by bus. Yours; by us and the untold stories and letters that are never finished, never sent.

As we grow, our hearts go into tiny pieces by wanderlust, by books we keep rereading, by dreams we were taught. As we grow, we go. Often when we go too far for too long, we take too many memories with us. We capture La Giralda, it replaces our first sand castle helped by a favorite aunt. We stroll around London, and miss our fathers’ hometown less and less. We fall in love with strangers and out of love with another. We trade and trade and leave so little of what defines home.

Most of the time we just lose that little piece on our way home; we trade it on the airport or with the smell of the sea and its infinite possibility. We get all the boarding gates and seafloor we want, but no more home.

As we grow, we trade.


Sometimes, late in the afternoon while you took a nap and I was too tired to prepare the dinner, I sat still and questioned myself, “Did I trade too much when I was young?”