family

Reconstructing the Looking Glass

~ Natal Galvan ~ 2 Comments

In the whimsical dance of life, I’ve found solace in the serendipitous wisdom of self-help books. Rather than a linear journey from cover to cover, I let fate guide my hand to a page that whispers just what my soul needs to hear. On a day kissed by destiny, I cradled “The Art of Possibility” by Rosamund and Benjamin Zander in my hands. It was page 42 that caught my eye, where Rosamund muses on the art of remolding the past:

“How often do we stand convinced of the truth of our early memories, forgetting that they are but assessments made by a child? We can replace the narratives that hold us back by inventing wiser stories free from childish fears, and in doing so disperse long held psychological stumbling blocks.”

This passage is a beacon, illuminating the profound influence of perception and our sovereign right to redraw the contours of our personal tales. The Zanders assert that the fabric of our existence is spun from the yarns we narrate to ourselves and absorb from others. By rethreading these yarns, we possess the alchemy to transform our view of life and the tapestry of our connections.

This resonated with me profoundly, as mere days prior to reading this, I was enveloped in the warmth of my mother and visiting aunts from Colombia. Amidst a symphony of laughter and the spirited flow of aguardiente, confessions and lessons from their lives unfurled like vibrant threads. Each shared their own saga of clandestine escapades, with no remorse for the masquerades necessary to guard their secrets.

As the day unfolded, family lore long concealed began to emerge, like specters stepping out for a promenade. The revelations about my parents soon followed. I discovered truths that had been veiled from my childhood gaze, piecing together the mosaic of my upbringing.

A melancholy tide now washes over me. In those shared moments, I saw my father not as an enigma, but as flesh and blood, flawed and real. The very kin who harbored their own secrets were quick to cast stones at what I once believed was an unblemished fortress of love, my dad. My adoration for my father was unwavering, yet I was led to see him as a beast. He was no beast; he was simply human.

I harbor no rage when I ponder these revelations. Might my bond with my father have flourished differently if his image hadn’t been tarnished by others’ unchecked emotions? If they had shielded me from the complexities, rather than painting him as a villain?

Revisiting the past holds a sacred significance for me now. With the wisdom of adulthood, I perceive life through a lens refined by my own experiences. It’s a curious thing; I once prided myself on being open-minded, and perhaps I was, in some respects. Yet, as I’ve journeyed and adventured, my consciousness has blossomed further.

The anniversary of his departure looms on the horizon. For the first time, I can honor his memory with tears of love, not sorrow. Some might say it’s too late, his absence a barrier. But I disagree. I’ve been graced with the insight and maturity to understand what was once beyond my grasp. This is tranquility, a gift I never anticipated. I cherish this newfound closure and embrace the evolution of our bond.

The Double Standard of Forgiveness: Family Dynamics

~ Natal Galvan ~ 2 Comments

As time marches on, I find myself enveloped in the complexities of adult hypocrisy. It’s a thick fog that seems to cloud judgment and warp reality to suit one’s own narrative. Growing older has peeled back the curtain to reveal a truth that’s both liberating and unsettling: adults don’t always hold the answers. They, too, are improvising through life’s unpredictable script, their actions becoming more transparent and unapologetic with age.

This realization hits hardest when I consider the relationship I had with my father—a relationship marred by the tainted perspectives handed down by the very adults who claimed to guide me. They warned me of his flaws, painting a picture of a man I should guard my heart against. Yet, as the years stack up, I see that those same adults were guilty of similar, if not identical, transgressions.

The struggle I face isn’t with the loss of my father or the strained ties that bound us. Such narratives are not unique in the tapestry of human experience. My battle lies in the newfound knowledge that my mother’s side of the family, once perceived as the bastion of virtue, was equally flawed. They committed the same mistakes they implored me to neither forgive nor forget in my father.

The judgment, the half-truths, and the outright omissions of fact—it’s a mire of deceit that begs the question: How could they stand so firmly in their righteousness while casting my father as the perennial villain? He was condemned for his humanity, for his errors, and when he stumbled, there was no hand to help him up. We broke him, collectively and remorselessly, without a backward glance.

In this reflection, I grapple not with forgiveness but with understanding. The double standard of absolving a mother while vilifying a father speaks volumes about the selective nature of our grace. It’s a poignant reminder that in the end, we are all fallible beings, navigating the murky waters of life’s choices and consequences.

Is there a simmering anger within me? Undoubtedly, yes. For 37 years, I navigated life under the impression that my father was a man to be scorned, when in truth, he was merely human. The narrative I was fed—that his errors were unforgivable—shaped me into who I am today. Now, I can’t help but ponder if I might have been different without that influence.

Life’s rich tapestry, observed through the actions of others and the wisdom gleaned from countless books, has broadened my understanding of the human condition. Yet, the lens through which I view life and people has been irrevocably colored by the strife between my mother and father.

I believe he’s out there, somewhere, with a newfound comprehension of my thoughts and emotions—a connection we lacked in life. And in this belief, I find peace, knowing he’s aware of my forgiveness. After all, what I once thought needed absolution was nothing more than the ordinary failings of a man.

As I forge my path, I carry with me the lessons of this dichotomy, hoping to break the cycle of hypocrisy for the generations to come. It’s a journey toward a more compassionate and equitable understanding of forgiveness, where the scales of judgment are balanced, and every soul is given the chance to rise from their missteps.

Monday Morning Coffee

~ Natal Galvan

Isn’t it wild how the simplest of morning rituals, like brewing a cup of joe, can catapult you on a time-traveling adventure back to the days of yore? That’s exactly what happened to me this morning. As I savored the first few sips of my meticulously brewed French press coffee made with fresh ground coffee beans (from the mountains of Colombia!), a thought struck me – this doesn’t hold a candle to mom’s coffee!

Now, here’s the kicker. My mom, a superhero in disguise, single-handedly raised two kids while juggling three jobs. She didn’t have the luxury of buying coffee beans, let alone have the time for a grinder followed by simmering in a French press. Her magic potion? Instant coffee! A generous scoop from the big red plastic tub, a splash of boiling water, a quick stir, and voila! A steaming cup of black coffee, as is the custom for most Colombians.

While Cubans have their petite espressos, Colombians relish their ‘tinto’ – small shots of black coffee. But the coffee that had me reminiscing wasn’t her usual black brew. It was something special, something she made when she could steal a few extra moments.

She’d heat milk until it was frothy and fluffy, the likes of which I’ve never seen replicated on a stovetop. This creamy delight was then added to the coffee, creating a sort of ‘cafe con leche’. That was the coffee that had me lost in nostalgia this morning.

The memory was a bittersweet symphony, filling me with joy and a pang of sadness. Why the sadness, you ask? Because I know I’ll never taste that coffee again. Sure, my mom’s still around, but she’s traded her instant coffee for a more leisurely brew. I could try to recreate her masterpiece, buying the same ingredients, following the same steps that I’ve watched her do countless times. But deep down, I know it just wouldn’t be the same.

Isn’t life peculiar? The memories that fill us with the most joy often carry a tinge of sadness, simply because they’re experiences we can’t physically relive. But hey, that’s the beauty of nostalgia, isn’t it?

The Quiet Reckoning

~ Natal Galvan

“Daddy! I need help!”

A cry pierced the air, a symphony of irritation and mild alarm; it heralded no menace, only the onset of a deluge of tears that dared to breach the ramparts of my heart, long fortified. There, in her vibrant fuchsia chariot, the little girl and her companion sat, teetering on the edge of too-grown for such whimsical rides. Midway through their suburban odyssey, the spirited steed faltered, its electric lifeblood drained, leaving dreams momentarily stranded.


“DADDYYYYYYY!” He was still inside, and these young ladies had a block to drive.


Suddenly he bolts out of the house as if he had been catapulted but some unseen force, hops down the four small steps, landing on the sidewalk with a WAP! Within seconds he makes his way down the sidewalk and around the back of the Jeep. Grabbing onto the back, he begins to run, pushing them down the sidewalk and sending them all into laughter.


This is the moment that I burst into tears.


It dawned on me then, the stark realization that the bond I yearned for with my father was a dream unfulfilled, now lost to time. A year and a half had passed since his departure. His health had always been fragile, leading to numerous scares, but our estrangement made these moments less poignant. In truth, he had been absent from my life; thus, his passing did not leave a void.
On the day of his passing, my tears were not for the loss of a beloved father, for our love had never blossomed. Instead, I felt a peculiar sense of curiosity. Visiting him a week before, I saw a man unknown to me. He lay silent, eyes closed, hands twisted in pain or discomfort, his mouth agape. Caretakers attended to him, wiping away drool, moistening his lips, offering water through a sponge.


A solitary encounter with him became memorable when I played a song from my childhood from the movie, “An American Tale,” which we cherished. His reaction was unexpected—his face contorted, tears flowed, and he emitted sounds of deep distress.


Before me was a stranger, a man whose life had barely brushed against mine. I didn’t know his favorite color. I did not know his favorite food. I didn’t know what genre of movie he preferred. I knew little of him—his likes, dislikes, or passions—save for his love of music and women. Whether his feelings for us were born of love or guilt, I could not discern.


I’m not going to say that he never tried, but there were certain wounds too deep, etched onto the soul of my being that wouldn’t allow for that to fully happen. There were rare occasions in which I had been the one to try. I’d reach out to him with a plan of action. We’d talk for hours going over what our lives had been up to that point and sprinkling in how we had to try to fix it, this, us. We’d hang up the phone, I’d feel light, and accomplished. That bit of motivation would then be followed up with silence. He would disappear and we wouldn’t speak for what would be for a couple of years after that. This would be our pattern until the day he died.


As a reader, I was aware of the potential regret of not connecting with him, a sentiment echoed by my family. Yet, now that he is gone, it is not regret that weighs on me but a profound disappointment—a longing to experience the sorrow that eludes me, the natural grief of a child for their father.


For months after he died, I would anxiously wait for the moment everyone had been warning me about. The moment of missing him, of yearning to hear his voice, or to hold his cold hands (his hands were always cold- “Cold hands, warm heart” he’d say!) but that moment never really came. I would try to sit in silence and see if I could feel his presence. I’d try my hardest to pay close attention to my dreams to see if maybe he’d visit me there. I soon realized I was reverting to childhood, always waiting for him, wanting him to visit, always being met with disappointment. So, I gave up again like I had years back.


Perhaps I won’t grieve as I did upon witnessing my neighbor, his offspring in tow, navigating a bubblegum-pink Barbie Jeep under the somber March skies. Yet, there’s solace in the breakthrough, a quiet epiphany embraced in solitude. It was a moment graced with a tender reflection of him, untainted by even a whisper of bitterness.

Headed Home

~ Natal Galvan

As soon as I publicly voiced my plans on moving back home I had quite a number of people reach out to me questioning why.

“Why would you ever come back here? Why leave Florida to come back to this?”

It’s a natural question especially coming from those who have never left home. For someone like me who has been away from home for 12 years now, the question is a bit silly. My answer is simple. I’m ready to head back home.

I first left NJ when I was 20 years old. I had just gone through a very painful breakup. I was tired of my town and all of the surrounding areas. I had been born and raised in the same area and although I knew quite a few people from all sorts of different backgrounds, I was bored of it all. There was an entire world to see. I would be damned if I where to just stay in one spot my whole life.

I took off to Florida in February of 2008 and I have pretty much lived in every major area of South Florida except for Miami. I also moved within that time to California and lived there for exactly one year before heading back to the East Coast with my tail between my legs (you may have won the battle but not yet the war CA! *shakes fist dramatically in the air*).

I have experienced so many different kinds of adventures, and been on so many journeys, some bad, most good. I’ve gone through many lessons and although life lessons will never cease to exist, every single one I’ve been through up until now has helped me discover who I am. I believe that without discovering and learning about who we really are, not just as people, but also as individual souls, without knowing that you can’t possibly enjoy life for what it really is. How can you enjoy it if you are always questioning yourself, your likes, your dislikes, your boundaries, your desires? How can you create your reality when you barely know your dreams? Not society’s, not your family’s, but your own. Moments of introspection and self-discovery are key to experiencing and living life in the best way we can for ourselves.

I once left home because I was tired of being around the same old, to learn more about myself, and to see what I was capable of. Now I go home because I’m ready to be around all those that know me and love me for me and always have even before I truly knew myself. I am ready to be around familiar surroundings. I can take what I’ve learned about myself and apply it to my everyday life and do something special with with it alongside of the support and love of my family and friends.

I am running towards what I once ran away from. Although I will never lose my itch to discover, that is what traveling is made for. I will always be nomadic. It is in my blood. My move back home may not even be forever, who knows!? I, however, do know that home is where the heart is and I’m headed on back.

Yes We Are And This Is Why

~ Natal Galvan

I was apart of a very interesting conversation not too long ago which included my boyfriend and one of his good friends.  They were speaking of the best method to clean car headlights.

“Bro, all you have to do is spray your headlights with OFF bug spray and bam! They’re clean!”

“Yeah, you told me that but when I looked it up it said that it doesn’t last very long. It’s a short term fix. I’m just going to buy the special kit and clean them. I can clean yours too babe.” My boyfriend smiles, turning his attention from his friend to where I was sitting.

“Awe, I appreciate that! But don’t worry, I can just do it.” The statement spilled from my lips without a second’s thought. It has always been natural for me to do things on my own. For one thing, I’ve never liked to burden others with tedious duties, especially if it’s something I could easily just do my self. Plus, I’ve always been one to just take care of things on my own. Not so much because I want to but because I’ve been conditioned to. My boyfriend’s friend, who I just met a couple months ago, wouldn’t have a clue as to the reasoning of my reaction though and he quickly starts to lay it on thick…

“Lord.. all you women now-a-days are so independent! Can’t you girls just let us do things for you? I mean, it’s because we actually like to do things for you. It’s how we show that we care, seriously…”

He is not the only man to feel this way. I feel as though the majority of men see women as wanting to be Miss. Independent, yet to be honest, I don’t think it is so much of us wanting to be independent as it is that we have been conditioned to be this way.

My generation is the generation of the baby boomer parents. Baby boomers are the generation to have really started a new trend in parenting, instilling different values and ways of life. Whether you were married and then divorced, raising children that way, or never married to begin with and having children out of wedlock, one of the major lessons taught, be it beaten into you or subconsciously taught, was the lesson of being independent. Doing for yourself so you would never have to solely depend on others. This lesson being especially directed towards females. Men were always raised as being the “men of the house”. Families have always depended on men to bring home food, to help build and maintain shelter and order. Men were always looked as the bosses, the ones who truly ran the household. It has only been in the last 50 years or so that women have begun a new sort of revolution with what they wanted their contributions to be. More freedom to choose what, where, when, and who when it came to decisions to be made in their lives. Even women who have been in a loving marriage for decades will say that they wish a sort of different life for their daughters, one with more leeway to do what they want to do and without having to depend on anyone other than themselves.

My parents divorced when I was 4 years old. At that time, my mother had depended on my father so much that she didn’t even know to fill out a personal check on her own. She had been so utterly dependent on my father that when they split up, she felt as if she had been thrown into a world she knew nothing of. It was a struggle for her to get back on her feet and succeed as a single mother of two young girls. Her mantra always was, “Do for yourself. Depend on no man. You are all you need.” and as a kid, watching and observing, I took this in and applied it to my life. Before I knew it, it was my life.

I am no extreme feminist by any means. Yet, I do understand the thoughts behind those that are, just as I understand the frustrations plaguing men when it comes to the evolution of women and the roles men now play in their lives. But as it is a struggle for men to adapt to a woman’s newly found independence, it is also a struggle for women to find a middle ground with wanting to be independent while also allowing room for someone else to help take care of you. It is a small battle that presents itself regularly in life. One that I don’t ever see being won by either party but one that can be a bit more manageable.

For me it is a struggle to let go of the reigns a bit and allow for someone else to take on  more than what I am used to giving up. I have to remind myself that yes, although I am very independent, I also have to allow others who love me to do things for me, not because I can’t do them myself but because for them, it’s a way to show that they care. It takes effort and awareness to be able to allow for this to happen but it’s a challenge worth accepting if it means bringing a bit of joy into someone else’s life. I hope that for the women who read this post it allows for you to take a step back, however slight that step may be, in order to allow someone else to do for you. Allow them to care for you in ways that they would like to express. Give them that chance to express. I also hope that for the men who read this you may now understand that maybe it isn’t so much that we hate your help. It is that we have grown into independence and truly know nothing else.

Character Foundation

~ Natal Galvan ~ 1 Comment

My love of books and passion for writing grew from the manure of a childhood I had growing up. It was the perfect fertilizer. From the time I was born I was thrown into an atmosphere of anger and aggression. My father wasn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict. He was just mean or absent. A cranky and miserable man with an entirely too short of a fuse so needless to say he was never a really big part of my life. When it came to parenting he was a minimalist and once my parents divorced, the main male role model in my life would end up being my grandfather.

My parents divorced when I was about 4 and I do remember that being a huge turning point for me, and of course, so was all the other crap that was to come. After the divorce, my mother quickly had to go from having one full time job to having one full time and two part time jobs. While she was out working hard to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table, my grandparents provided us with the care and supervision that we needed. They soon after began living with us and it stayed that way on and off for about ten years.

Many would describe my grandfather Cesar as mean and grumpy, a man of few words. He apparently wasn’t too popular among my aunts and uncles, although the love for him was never absent. They had their own daddy issues to deal with and most of my cousins weren’t his biggest fans. My grandfather, in my eyes was something else. For me he was a handsome elegant man who loved my sister and I to no avail. He spoiled us when he could yet we still showed great respect for him. If we did wrong, he would let us know, not once hitting us, but his verbal reprimands were like harsh, stinging slaps to our faces. We never wanted to let him down. My grandfather taught me what it was to have a man in charge. The head of the household. He may not have been a perfect father himself but he had obviously learned and had become the perfect grandfather for my sister and me.

My grandmother was an angel. She was a woman who had given to birth to 8 children and pretty much raised them on her own. My grandfather had been known to leave her for weeks without notice to go on drinking binges, spending the little money the family would earn completely on himself. My grandmother was a true housewife. Not only did she cook and clean, but she also tended to the farm (milking cows, killing chickens, ect..) and would hand make all of her children’s clothes. You can now just imagine the role she played in our lives. My grandmother taught us how to make homemade meals, and even homemade cheese. She knew all about universal energy and shared with us the importance of nature, love, and intuition. And when times were tough emotionally, she was the one who taught me how to get through it.

I’ve never had it easy. Whether it was my home life, school life, or the life I had among my “friends” there was always something I wanted to run away from. My grandmother was the one who taught me how to escape the bullying, escape the feeling of rejection from my father, escape from all the darkness, and all other things I had no energy to really face. She taught me how to escape through the magical world of words.

“El que lee se instruye.” She’d repeat. And I did.. I taught myself many things about life. Things I would have never discovered early on in life if it weren’t for the magic of words.

My Teacher’s an Alien by Bruce Coville was the very first book I ever read that hadn’t been assigned to me by a school teacher. I’ll never forget it. It had a bright orange cover with two school kids, a boy and a girl, looking through their school teacher’s living room window, as they spot the teacher zippering down his human disguise revealing the fact that he is, in fact, an alien. I was about 12 or 13 at the time and this book was the first book from the library I had ever decided to read on my own. It also ended up being the first time I had ever read a book cover to cover in one day. This is when I understood the magic that books held in transporting you from reality into a completely different world. From that day forward I had found my escape and I was addicted. At 14 I began to write. I wrote poems and short stories, most of the time using my life as a point of reference. Writing then soon turned into my other form of escape and also release. I ended up spending most of my adolescent years with my nose stuck in either a book or notebook while the rest of the time I spent observing. I learned to observe people and life around me. I began to get good at not only reading books, and people, but situations as well.

Today, I still find shelter within the pages of a book and expression within the words I write down. Who I am today and what I know comes from guidance of what I’ve read, and what I’ve experienced, but also from the wise words of whom my grandparents once were. My grandfather is no longer walking this earth. The day he passed was the day I knew I lost my fatherly guidance. Instead of sorrow, I expressed gratitude because to have him in my life at all was a needed blessing. I mean who knows how my view of men and relationships would have been if he would not have been present in my life. My grandmother on the other hand is alive, but she is not the version that I once knew. She suffers from Alzheimer’s and is totally wheelchair bound. She currently lives back in her home country of Colombia where she gets better and affordable care than she would here in the states. I cannot tell you when the last time was that I saw her or if I will ever get to see her again. I think about them every single day for everything I know came from the foundation that they helped build within me. Today, I give them thanks for the wonderful world they helped me create for myself, now all that is left is for me to make every day count for they did none of what they did in vain.

To Cesar and Maria, You will always be the great example of which to follow.

abuleitos

 

 

Sirens of Change

~ Natal Galvan

I can still here the sirens echoing in the background. The images of hysteria play back in my mind. To think, two decades have passed since then.

A warm and bright afternoon in July, my family from Boston had been in town visiting. It was always an exciting time when they came to visit. My aunt, an incredible cook of Colombia’s finest cuisine, my uncle the funniest and happiest man I had ever known. The two of them had two kids, my cousins, and for the most part we all got along pretty well. Leon was the oldest of the two and was awesome to hang around with. He treated me as his equal although he was 5 years older than I was. He had the humor of his father and the kind heart of his mother. Veronica, his sister, was only a couple year older than me, and by far, way cooler. Growing up, she was who I wanted to be. Anytime our families got together, my sister and I would tag along with her as if we were playing follow the leader. My sister, who was four at the time, followed because it was in her nature to. I followed because all I wanted to do was learn to be cool too.

On this particular day, my cousin Veronica and I were out in the yard laying on the grass, contemplating on what to do with our day. I was never the one out the the two of us to come up with any ideas for I never had any cool ones to come up with. I would take the backseat and follow her lead. This is why I was shocked when an innocent comment on my part, evolved into a moment that would change my life forever.

“I’m in the mood for some sour gummy worms.” I thought to myself out loud. Veronica shot up and mentioned what a great idea that was. “Wait, what idea??” I was clueless.

Instantly a plan was concocted to somehow obtain some money and head over to the store to buy ourselves some candy. Half of our plan was easy, getting to the store. We would just walk there. Sure, it was dangerous. We had to cross an intersection, four lanes of traffic flowing both ways, but all we needed to do was look both ways before we crossed. No biggie. The other half of our plan is what needed tweaking. How would we get money to buy candy? We couldn’t ask our parents. They’d want to know why we needed the money which would lead them to find out we were heading to the store. They’d never just let us walk there.

At that very moment her and I were brainstorming, a neighbor of mine pulls into her parking spot just a few doors down from where we lived. She was the nicest lady ever and I remembered back then I always wondered why she lived alone. That’s when I was struck by another “brilliant” idea. Apparently the second one of the day, I was on a roll. I explained to Veronica that all we had to is get the lady to chit chat with us, we would bring up the fact that it was our friend’s birthday and that we wanted to get to the store to buy her a birthday card and some candy but that we had no money. I was almost sure that the lady would give us some. I wasn’t sure if the plan was full proof but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

By mere luck, or very good acting, we had gotten the lady to donate $10 to the cause. After explaining to her that our parents never had money, her look of pity fell upon us, and due to the fact that she had nothing smaller than a 10 dollar bill in her wallet, let us have it in order to “make your friend happy”.

We couldn’t have grabbed the money any quicker when we heard my mom’s voice calling for us. I stashed the money in the pocket of my neon blue shorts as we walked up to our porch where my mother stood.

“There you two are,” she smiled. “Take your sister to play with you. But don’t go where I can’t keep an eye out for you.” I began to debate immediately. I didn’t want my sister to tag along. This was bull crap.

There’s no arguing with mom… ever. With a frown on my face and heavy stomps of my feet, the final signs of rebellion, the three of us headed down the steps, and only when my mother had gone back inside had we redirected ourselves towards the store.

The walk towards the store, reaching the intersection, those moments feel like a blur to me. Blurry snapshots of events that seem unimaginable, but that happened. One moment the three of us are giggling at nothing in particular, discussing what kind of candy we were all to get. The next moment, we’re almost to the intersection when my sister, who I was holding hands with at the time, pulls from my grasp and darts out and away from of me laughing playfully, her giggles still echoing in my ear.  The world slowed down at that very second.

A small blue car. High pitched screeching. A man runs up to me, he’s so blonde he looks like the sun, and he’s yelling.

“Where’s your mother????!!!…” and he then runs off again. I watch him to see where he runs to when I see the tiny little mound of flesh lying in the street that is my sister. She’s shouting out for my mom, her shouts then over powered by emergency sirens.

It was a miracle that my sister lived. I believe that the fact that she was so small is why she hadn’t been completely destroyed by a car that was going over 50 miles per hour. Her tiny body had been launched almost 50ft. She had broken both legs, lost most of her baby teeth, and had severe road rash to most of her body.

This phase of my life had been full of guilt and sorrow. So much so that today a lot of it still remains in the corners of my heart, shadowing the depths of my mind, only to be felt when I decide to let my guard down. It’s a pain that I will never truly lose for I feel as though I am a big reason as to much of the suffering my sister has had in the past. Even though I feel as though my sister is my twin soul and that our relationship with one another has been lived out through multiple past lives, creating much of the bond that we have today, I know that this tragic even that happened more than two decades ago has bonded us even tighter than we have ever been in any life before.

At the age of 8 is when I discovered tragedy and what it could mean for someone to lose a life. It had been the first time I got to experience first hand pure sadness and guilt knowing that I played a major part in someone  else’s physical and emotional pain. Trauma has made its way into my mind and has camped there for years. Today it’s hard for me to causally cross a street without imagining death lurking there, waiting for me.Today I still cope with what happened all those years ago with flashbacks and anxiety. Still it is a moment in life that I am grateful to have gone through, because no matter how much pain it’s dressed up in, there is a good that is greater than all the darkness it has shadowed. A beautiful light that was bestowed upon a horrific disaster. It took my sister over a year to fully recover. Today she is the most beautiful and loving person I know. She radiates the room when she walks into it with her smile. Today you would never even have imagined that she went through such an ordeal.  Today I am blessed to have her.

040-2 Photo Credit: Natal Galvan, Muse: Natal Galvan, Angie M.