(This is Cecilia Magaña, a incredibly sensational human being. One of the pillars of the person I am today, in 2013- as I edit this post. One of the best bosses I have ever had; an accomplished writer, and who deposited her confidence in me to do what she did best: lead. I celebrate you in life, my dear friend.)
It’s not supposed to hurt anymore. It’s about time tears should taste as wine and my mourning should feel as the perfect outfit for the death of me I’d foreseen.
It’s not supposed to feel like fumbling anymore. The cotton feet; the thorn-like skin; the floating sensations of the long lost heart beat, and a wishful feeling of despair and desire in me.
But because it is still supposed to decompose and re-arm the newly found broken structure I dreamt of, my hands and their twisted wrists cry before the lingering thought of you, beside me.
Cecilia, if anything, drop a line, so this memory heals.
Yet, since healing is difficult above all imperfect things, please do know that the concealment, the camouflage and suppression in your voice I seek, are now nuances of the blood my decaying veins will bleed.
Cecilia, all knowledge.
Cecilia, all wit.
Fallen autumn leaves in winter.
Unforgettable language, beyond dialect, pure speech.