Lydia has read the book JC wrote, Black Butterfly. She told me that he wrote about his life and that it includes the whole story of how he met me and everything he lived with me.
I already knew that, because I had read part of it. But I haven’t been able to continue. It’s one thing to read fiction, and something very different to read about what you yourself lived through.
Each story brings a memory back to life, and after reading I get lost in my own memories. Then I retell the story from my own point of view.
Lydia, even though she knows some of the characters, can read it as fiction.
I prefer to read his poems, or listen to the music he composed for me.
Here is the last poem he wrote to me:
Listening to “Parece que fue ayer,”
and yes, it feels like it was —
because time shrinks at the edges of a song,
like the shadow of a memory that doesn’t know whether it wants to stay or leave.
And I remember when I met Dilcia,
with that tender sunlight that exists only in memory,
that warmth as if someone were holding us from the inside
—not a person, but something more—
the heart holding us up
as if it were column and bread and blanket,
as if it were saying: “this is enough, kid, this is everything.”
We walked through San Salvador
like two newly born ghosts,
so lost in a place so lost
that the feeling of being lost stopped hurting
and became destiny.
There was trash in the gutters,
the smoke from the buses like a rough fog,
horns that said nothing,
faces that did not look.
And yet we walked,
and the asphalt was an altar,
and every corner held a story without words.
El Salvador was a strange neighborhood of the world,
we knew that.
A forgotten corner where even angels were careful not to fall.
A dirty place,
far from the attention of God—
but not from love.
Because there we were,
and love reached us.
It covered us like a torn sheet,
but warm.
And that was enough.
I looked at her,
Dilcia,
with her fearless way of walking,
with her eyes that knew more than I did,
and I thought:
if here, among exposed wires and metallic noise,
she looks at me,
then there is no world beyond this one.
We didn’t need anything else.
Not visas,
not money,
not better stories.
Because in that moment,
on that dusty street,
with the heat rising from us like an old, gentle fire,
we already had everything.
And now I hear the song.
And yes, it feels like it was yesterday.
But it also feels like it was a dream.
One of those that hurt when you wake up,
because you realize
you’re no longer walking lost in San Salvador,
and that Dilcia is no longer there,
and that the heart,
that loyal traitor,
keeps burning,
but it doesn’t warm the same way anymore.
Oyendo “Parece que fue ayer”,
y sí, parece —
porque el tiempo se encoge en los bordes de una canción,
como la sombra de un recuerdo que no sabe si quiere quedarse o irse.
Y me acuerdo de cuando conocí a Dilcia,
con ese sol tierno que sólo existe en los recuerdos,
ese calor como si alguien nos estuviera abrazando desde adentro
—no una persona, sino algo más—
el corazón sosteniéndonos
como si fuera columna y pan y manta,
como si dijera: “esto es suficiente, muchacho, esto es todo”.
Caminábamos por San Salvador
como dos fantasmas recién nacidos,
tan perdidos en un lugar tan perdido
que la pérdida dejó de doler
y se volvió destino.
Había basura en las cunetas,
el humo de los buses como una niebla áspera,
pitos que no decían nada,
rostros que no miraban.
Y sin embargo nosotros caminábamos,
y el asfalto era altar,
y cada esquina tenía una historia sin palabras.
El Salvador era un barrio raro del mundo,
eso lo sabíamos.
Un rincón olvidado donde hasta los ángeles se cuidaban de caer.
Un lugar sucio,
alejado de la atención de Dios —
pero no del amor.
Porque ahí estábamos nosotros,
y el amor nos alcanzaba.
Nos cubría como una sábana rota,
pero cálida.
Y eso bastaba.
Yo la miraba a ella,
Dilcia,
con su caminar sin miedo,
con sus ojos que sabían más que yo,
y pensaba:
si aquí, entre cables pelados y ruidos metálicos,
ella me mira,
entonces no hay más mundo que este.
No necesitábamos nada más.
Ni visas,
ni dinero,
ni historias mejores.
Porque en ese momento,
en esa calle polvorienta,
con el calor saliendo de nosotros como un fuego viejo y amable,
ya lo teníamos todo.
Y ahora oigo la canción.
Y sí, parece que fue ayer.
Pero también parece que fue un sueño.
Uno de esos que duelen al despertar,
porque uno se da cuenta
que ya no camina perdido en San Salvador,
y que Dilcia ya no está,
y que el corazón,
ese traidor leal,
sigue ardiendo,
pero no calienta igual
