I almost melt in the church’s smoky heat,
where a scented mist of incense rises,
cradling murmured words
as we sing all together,
before stepping out
into the blaze of sunlight.
Tía Bernarda leads me across the scorching plaza,
and when I complain, I’m lifted by the strong arms
of Serapia, but I’m too big to be carried
like a baby, so I squirm free, using my liberty
to gaze into the eyes of a marble horseman
who is said to be my godfather Félix, the man
who gave me his name
and who would have adopted me
if he hadn’t died and turned into stone.
Does everyone who has ever been alive
end up motionless in a peaceful park
sooner or later?
Apparently yes, because before I know
what has happened, there goes El Bocón too,
buried in the graveyard
under a headstone
without any clear explanation
other than Serapia’s quiet sigh,
as she says así pasa con los viejos—
that’s what happens to the old.
If life is a story
about the passing of time,
I think God should make
all the sad parts
rhyme.