LIKE IT'S 2007 AGAIN

Yesterday I turned two months old and reached a firm conclusion: this wonderful life they advertise is mostly an illusion.

I look at my little girl, drifting off to sleep in my arms, and immediately I feel like crying. And it is a difficult kind of crying to explain, because it does not have just one cause. It is a cry of happiness, disbelief, and love. But sometimes, it is also a cry of despair.

I discovered that brown is the color of all grandmothers’ souls. Like when you step into their homes and the floor hugs you, saying: “Go ahead, step all you want, I’ll hold you.” A color that seems heavy but smells like coffee—just like my grandma.

— Honey! Come here, quick! — What? — There’s a naked woman in the window!

Writing again was something I had planned for retirement. But since working until I die seems more likely, I decided to move the project up. This blog is a reunion — with my texts, with another time, and with myself — as if it were still 2007.