I get off the plane channeling my vision of Frida Kahlo, la mujer india morena.
Braided hair, sky blue dress, gold stilettos and a devil may care attitude.
Mi hermana, mi hermana linda, tu puedes recordar?
(My sister, my beautiful sister, do you remember?)
I had climbed los piramides del Sol y la Luna in Mexico City.
Stood on the spot where priests in flowing capes of iridescent bird feathers, ripped out beating human hearts to keep the Sun from dying and the world from ending.
I had stood there listening to my heart pounding in my chest–watching as an indolent sun set over the ruins of our savage past.
Mi gente, mi gente linda, ustedes puede recordar?
(My people, my beautiful people, do you remember?)
We meet at the airport. You and I. Back then my eyes were dying. Still, I could see you looked stunning. You were always the pretty one.
A friend. Passed down to me from my older sister. A girl not hip enough for her but just right for me.
There is no warm embrace between us. Instead, you ask me to put away my white cane—too conspicuous a symbol of blindness. I guess.
As we stroll through the airport, arm in arm, I feel your eyes raking over me. Finally, you lean in and whisper, “You’re dressed like a peasant!”
Mi hermana, mi hermana linda, yo recuerdo!
(My sister, my beautiful sister, I remember!)
That was the moment, the precise moment our friendship began to unravel.
