Pocket Writings. I write to be read.

Yesterday, I finished a short story book club cycle at the public library. I love all the weekly events they organize in the libraries of Menorca. If you stay tuned, there’s always something worthwhile. This month was Lucia Berlin’s turn, famous for her story collectionA Manual for Cleaning Women. “I write to be read,” she said.

I loved her way of narrating the everyday. I was also surprised by her life, which blends so much into her stories that you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I like that. Discovering writers through their writing, even if it’s not autobiographical (or maybe it is). In this post, I leave you with a piece of my own one that’s not about me (or maybe it is).

Nothing really matters much, does it? I mean really matters. And yet sometimes, suddenly, for barely a second, you’re granted the grace of believing it does, that it matters enormously.

Lucia Berlin

Me, when you were here

And I think of myself. Of myself, when you were here. When I—unhealthily—believed I belonged to you. And you to me. What madness. I see myself. As one might see a stranger. Maybe someone with whom you once shared some small, unimportant part of your life. Something distant. A yoga retreat, a painting class, a pottery workshop. Depending on how intense the moment was, you’ll remember more or fewer details about their face, their personality. You feel like you don’t know them at all. That’s how I feel when I think of myself. The me from when you were there.

And I realize you’re still around, but that feels distant now. If I try, I can still remember your scent. Your body’s smell and your cologne. Sometimes I catch it on someone I greet, or near a stranger, while sharing space in a store, comparing incense sticks I’m not going to buy. Then, my nose creates a space-time tunnel and takes me back to that street. The pedestrian one in our hometown, between that children’s clothing store and that herbalist shop—both of which are long gone. Like us.

It takes me back to those stolen kisses against the wall. I feel your scent again, strongly. And your lips. Warm. Wrapping around everything. I think I can feel your coat, the one I grabbed with both hands to pull you closer. I see your brown eyes, closed, just inches from mine. I smile seeing your eyes shut, just like they do in the movies. At that moment, we hadn’t even been together two months. And despite my just-turned-sixteen years—or maybe because of them—I am all desire. Skin and intensity.

There was so much still to live. With you and without you. But if someone had told me that then, I would’ve sworn—on everything I loved (and I’m not one to swear)—that without you, nothing was possible. Everything. Everything had to be with you. And when I think about it now, I’d hold myself tight. That version of me, behind your lips. And that us, which, despite all the bad, gave me so many good moments, and above all, so many pieces of the person I am today—without you.

Sometimes, as the years go by, you look back and say, “That was the beginning of…” or “We were so happy back then…” before… after… Or you think, “I’ll be happy when…” “Once I get…” “If we had…” But Hernán knew he was happy now.

Lucia Berlin

See you soon and happy reading!