Dukkha

I woke up one morning my feet facing the world.

This pequeno mundo was stitched in blue and red thread on an intricate rug and hung from corner to corner, covering one small wall of your apartment, the one you used to share with your gringa roommates.

I stared at the Southern tip of Florida, then at India, then at Australia, then at South Africa, then at what I thought was Bulgaria. You had told me all the countries you had been. You were a military child and hopped from place to place. At least, you used to. No real home, you’d say.

I laid there to soak it in. I let my shoulders sink into your furry pillows, and felt my body relax into your mushy mattress. I lay as still as I could and pretended my body was still asleep and I had woken up by mistake.

I laid in pretend sleep for a while. My eyes moved to all the colors you felt like placing in a haphazard but somehow soothing way. Your purple sheets, the one you warned me not get ash on, your yellow mandalas, the ones you got from tiny bodegas selling knickknacks and handcrafted potteries, your posters and pin-ups, the only squares you let into your life, all complemented your circle personality. You made this room.

I closed my eyes and pretended no one lived here. I imagined you walked into a clean space with a neat little window and a neat little night table and a neat little bed and a neat little bathroom. I imagined you brought an elephant loaded with your life and a footman to unpack your saddlebags. I imagined you took some paints out from a leather bag, one with wrinkles and scars and tears, and dumped color on every surface, until the lines defining you and your fuzzy, green-purple rugs and bronze trinkets had melted away, and your gringa roommates came in and couldn’t tell where the Che Guerra poster ended and where you began.

I opened my eyes.

It wasn’t until you came in that I realized you weren’t next to me.

Your eyes liked to look at people like they were made of glass, like there was no use in hiding food porque you could see our stomachs. Like there was no use in hiding people porque you could see our hearts. Like there was no use for Windex porque, Mau, you once told me, I like the flaws in you.

You said good morning to me as you walked past the world hung corner to corner. You made your way into your tiny bathroom and I could see the palm trees plastered on your plastic shower curtain, and the clothesbasket to the brim with your bras and panties and hoodies. You flipped the light and looked at it as it flickered. You smiled. You ashed your bowl, the one with green serpents swirling that bit and filled us with sleepy venom, and came over. You left the light on. The mattress leaned over. Your weight passed and I felt your knee prop up and then your hand, and then your other knee, until at last you placed your head on my chest. Your hair tickled my nose. I’ll make us breakfast in a bit, you said. Then we were quiet.

We didn’t talk. We hardly did. We didn’t have to. Your soft eyes never asked for conversation. You never needed words, or stories, or jokes, or laughs. Those things came at random, like a little shower does in the middle of April, or how you bump into a friend in the street, or how you call mom and it goes to voicemail.

You didn’t have a fan but if you did I imagined it would be chipping at a steady pace. You didn’t have a dog but if you did I imagined it would be fat and would curl up beside us. You didn’t spaz in your sleep but if you did I imagined it would be cute and I would give you cosquillitas. The sun outside wasn’t hot yet, and for the rest of that day it wouldn’t be. Your roommates were likely asleep still. No country music or burnt toast soured the air. Your breath fell in and out, how I imagined a newborns likely did.

I enjoyed the warmness for a little and felt my blood, my chest, my arms. They seemed so far away. I kept my eyes open and let my mind run. But it never stopped running, and now we are awfully far apart.

I would have liked to stay. Really, I would’ve. I would’ve liked to prove life wasn’t shifty like you thought it was. I would’ve liked to be the constant in your changing world. I would’ve liked to have been like your rug, the one with the earth stitched in blue and red, the one you’ve had for years and years, you’d say. I would’ve liked to fix your faulty light. I would’ve liked to have kissed you when you picked your little head up. I would’ve liked to have had an answer when you caught my eye and asked why I was smiling. I would’ve liked to have been thinking of you when you asked why I was smiling.

Instead, I felt the muscles around my mouth loosen and sag. I felt gravity tug my cheeks a bit. I was thinking of how cute you look all the time, I lied. You smiled and kissed my cheek. You’re a sap, you’d say.

Your eyes always liked to look at people like they were made of glass, like there was no use in hiding anything. You once told me, I like the flaws in things. I must’ve been loved by you, but I was in love with someone else, and you reminded me of her.

I whispered your name and we laid in pretend sleep on a warm, hazy morning and I remember how the next day I woke up in my bed alone, and your room was gone, and for every morning after that only memories proved I was ever there.