Letter From a Paisa
You are nothing like me, my god of rain and lightning and thunder making himself known even in the heart of summer, my underworlds, the bright oranges, blues, reds, and greens that are so vivid even my bones are radiant. I bet your bones are white and soft. You only lived here for two years—you’ve never lived here. This isn’t your home. These are not your cenotes, not your chicharrones, not your horchata, not your helados, not your nopales, not your Señora de Guadalupe, not your Diego Rivera or your Frida Kahlo. It doesn’t matter that your dad dreams in Spanish—this isn’t yours.
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