By Loli Molina
Returning to Spain always has a touch of a copla about it, a touch of nostalgia
a veil of oblivion imposed like a bandage that heals the pains
left behind in the corners. To Concha Piquer and Estrellita Castro
singing of the deepest sorrows of exile, which is now called
Carmela planted the tree on the very day she found out she was pregnant with her first child, whom she would name Antonio, after his father.
On February 6, 1937, the cold and damp—in the form of Franco’s troops and their allies—surrounded the city of Málaga like a gigantic wave about to engulf everything. My grandfather Rafael, from whom I inherited a love of antique desks, poetry, and delicate seashells, told me many years ago—perhaps more than thirty—that he was fourteen when my great-grandfather came home and told my great-grandmother that…
As we approached the city of Teotihuacán, I could see the iconic eagles flying above our car and the beautiful pyramids on the horizon. My brother and I eagerly got out of the car, drawn by the enchanting scent of marigolds.
When you lose a mother, you lose the one who brought you into the world
to your goddess
the beautiful home where you took refuge during those months of transformation
a life in sync with its heartbeat
spiritual unity
A moment to reflect,
a moment to pause and observe.
A moment of silence,
in that insistent moment,
of incoherent apathy,
