I could write instructions down, but my hands remember the motions better. I’m stirring the pot, splitting the corn leaves, and sweeping the floor. When I watch her work the dough, wipe the counter, clean the dishes, I catch the sight of her hands, finding new wrinkles every time. The digits that held my small back and the palms that packed my lunches, never missing a day. It’s not a matter of copying, but an ancestral craving.

 

I can’t help but share my food and can’t help but protect my belongings. Every object is a story, a destination, and a window. I’ve been reading stories from sticky notes or in journals as if they weren’t my own. In third person, I float to new places and come back to old ones. My handwriting is too curly to understand, though I figure all these pieces speak a different language anyway. It’s way too coded to translate accurately, but that doesn’t stop others from trying. It’s nice that they try. I want to know what she’s saying, too.

 

To open a portal, you have to start a dance. Termina con una vuelta, entonces move your hands, do not think too hard about it, and do not stop. People will question you, but the questions are there to help you expand, not to answer.