A Familiar Becoming: Knowing you then, and learning you now
I met you a few lives ago. We were young—younger, rather. Children running, playing, hiding in the sounds of blaring party music. You were shorter than me then, and you called me mean. It’d be years before I saw you again.
We were older. Children, still—only awkward and debilitatingly conscious of ourselves, reluctantly learning to dance in my tío’s backyard. One step forward, one step back—y vuelta.
We said goodbye, and it’d be several more years before you ended up at my house. I hardly recognized you, now that you were taller than me. We were adults by then. We shared only a few words—nothings, really—and before I knew much else about your current existence, you were gone yet again.
Just this past year, I was new and unsure of who I was when I found myself alone with you. My shoulders were up to my ears, my jaw clenched and sore. We shared meals and stories in the dim light. You told me about your interests, your desires, and I listened attentively. I quickly realized that, after all this time, I’d never really known you.
I relaxed my tongue and breathed deeply, savoring every word. Your past, present, and future were fascinating and peculiar. Dare I say, attractive. I know now that my subtle discomfort was simply an unfamiliar desire to be a part of it. I wanted to understand you. To explore the worlds you described. To experience the life you were building. I was curious about you and all that you are.
Today, exploring the universe that is your mind is one of my favorite pastimes—a greater privilege is watching you bring it to life.
Over the phone, in between bites, under the stars, or halfway to the Oregon border, I listen. I learn. I yearn for more of you.
Tomorrow will remind me of yesterday and excite me for the day after that. Next week, I’ll think back on months before and grow eager for those still to come.
For now, I sit in gratitude for this moment and pray for more.
tio – uncle
y vuelta – and turn
