Camila Lopez-Passapera

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Somewhere in the ocean there is a small boat. In it, my
grandparents sail through rain and lightning, and row, and nearly
drown, to cheat destiny, to be welcomed in an island nearly
identical to their own.

In a restaurant south of France, near the Spanish border, my
mother sips a glass of wine and reads the newspaper. She speaks
bad French to the waiter and, in a side glance, locks eyes with my
father. They have two children and fall out of love.

Fast forward eighteen years and I stand in front of your apartment,
my place of worship for the past few months. I give up thallium
kisses for Prussian blue, and teach myself that life is about more
than just surviving. I spend a hundred mornings watching the sun
with you, as you memorize every syllable of my name and you
make fun of the way I say focus until one day, you don't rise next to
me.

Today, I get a text as I sit outside the library, in which you ask my
last name.

I realize most things didn't happen the way I remember them.