Rain Showers On My Windows

For a moment that feels almost ethereal I rise as I wallow in the deep waters of my memory. Memories have begged to resurface after my relentless efforts to drown them. My soul elevates to the highest level of rooftop lounges surrounded by purple sky and skylines. I sit close to the prairies up high while they dance and sing. No le pegue a la negra. A song calling me home reminding me of histories of slavery and slaves standing against their masters for what they believe in. I am still a slave to these memories that lash at me causing my body to heave. I am the plate on the seafloor ripping to reopen the gashes of my wounds, so earthly and yet so difficult to touch.

The roof makes me feel powerful, or maybe it just makes me safe. At the top I have all the choices; there’s nowhere else to go but down. It doesn’t matter if it’s over the ledge or down the staircases of thoughts that raised me high in isolation. They misled me to images of what it could be—laughter and dancing—while I am stuck on what was. The sound of high pitched shrieks of girls forgetting to be women for a moment in the endearing way that one remembers what it’s like to be a child, free and adventurous.

The helicopter sounds as if it’s trying to mow the grasses of clouds that I am imagining. Do you think it searches for my soul where it wonders up high? Skyscrapers shine their lights repeatedly in urgency as if they were calling me awake from the fog that pretends to illuminate my mind. It’s that very same fog that demands me to write words that are as understood as the dark rooftop grasses I sit next to, dimly light when close and pitch black more than a foot behind me. For one moment dancing flowers beacon to me by rhythmically swaying to Caribbean songs full of candor and energy. For a second I’m transported to the top of la loma where I can feel the breeze coming in from the sea to lick emotional wounds that have reopened. My body, mind, and soul are open like the windows hoping to release pent up heat from the inside of my Cuban home in the middle of the afternoon. I wake from my bed inside my memories, nauseated and desperate to breathe some fresh air.

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