If all dates

are a number on the calendar

not every day passes by the same

just as a sincere sob  

and false breathlessness    

do not signal equivalence.  

We thought we had lived it

or we thought we had lost it

but once the storm passed

life pursues memory

when you cross paths with a person

and your heart pounds

in an unerring sigh.

This was a day like any other.

A day without importance.

But it was wrapped in an ephemeral

light in which we believed

and with which we toasted

so as not to collapse

and to continue onward.

And we did so with a kiss

and two glasses that clinked

very softly.

You could say it was eternal.

You could say

that just as no one

believed in us

no one would dare break it.

But, as you see, life has that duplicity

that awaits us between the days

that are marked or erased on the wall

to save the happy moments

as we try to bury in our memory

those who caused us so much damage.

What are we talking about?

About love?, tenderness?

friendship smashed to bits?

About something real that no longer remains?

What were we talking about in the meantime

while the numbers passed

their empty signal behind our backs

and we wrote

the lower case words bigger

so they were given more importance

and we would be heard a bit farther out?

Writing an anniversary isn’t easy.

Writing the ritual that throws us

against the center of the calendar like puppets

is not easy. Some relate it

to the death of their loved ones.

Others with losses that are confused

with discoveries.  But all of them

—like the days that are erased

or the ones marked in red—

cannot be lived again

no matter how much a person reminds us

of a noteworthy day that seemed

more important to us than life itself.  

On a date like that when there is no longer

that feeling that makes us collide

against everyone—sometimes gently

and others very hard—

the body that is dedicated to a time

impossible to forget resounds. 

translated from Spanish by Sandra Kingery