My memories of Spain are now limited to the darkness.

By that I don’t mean my memories are somber, because at this point I think too little of my native country to produce negative thoughts. My statement is very literal, in fact. Behind my eyes are a number of images, blackened by time. I’ve stacked them all away awhile ago, let them rot and fade, in order to allow myself some peace of mind. I’ve cased them in foggy glass and had them face the walls. The sunlight glimmers off the frames and pools around them.

My memories of Spain are now limited to the darkness.

I remember the hazy twilight between the day and the night. I remember showers of lamplight. I remember the vestibule of our building and a proud-faced Swiss girl kicking a soccer ball into the walls.

I remember this girl’s house. I remember the deafening silence of that house. I remember the curtain of beads that hung from her sister’s doorframe, their orange coolness in the afternoon blaze. I remember her haughty smile. I remember her pantry and a film of bread and chocolate plastered to the roof of my mouth.

I remember Lourdes’s kitchen and her rubber mantelpiece. I remember her narrow hallways and the cobwebs of darkness woven across her walls. I remember the yellow light that permeated her bedroom. I remember a row of hand-crafted fangs stuck between my teeth and my lips. I can taste wet paper and green ink.

I remember my grandparents’ living room on Christmas Eve. I remember the itch of my tights and the irritating fabric of my skirts. I remember the thick smell of cream and capon.

I remember the dark laughter of the neighbors’ kids. I remember how it boomed from the garden and, like smoke, wafted into the blurry night sky.

I remember the time I rose from bed and walked down the hallway into the kitchen and told my mother, “Good morning,” and she turned away from the ironing board and looked at me and said, “It’s not morning yet.”

Copyright © Blanca Parga 2020