Among the trees

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Do you remember when we lived in Mar Mármara in Popotla?

And the Montezuma bald cypress where Hernán Cortés cried his defeat?

You were only two when we left that house.

Do you remember the ice creams on Sundays?

The Alameda de Santa María, its trees, its Moorish kiosk.

We jumped the steps: two, three, four, five!

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Do you remember, sister?

Later, we went with dad to Zacatenco after dinner.

We spent hours on the almost horizontal pepper tree,

that Peruvian tree that shamans

use to sweep curses.

In secondary school, one day we skipped school

and went to the ‘new’ Chapultepec.

Sitting in the shade of the young nameless trees,

I kissed my silly boyfriend.

You counted the kisses until you were bored.

Do you remember?

Mom loved trees.

Back then I did not know how to value what was important.

Later a weeping willow accompanied me in mourning her death,

But you cannot remember this, because I was by myself.

After my divorce:

Our city dressed as Jacarandas.

The braided ficus in my new apartment.

The ficus where I waited for you in front of your house

while you kicked out your abusive ex-husband.

The smell of Christmas trees

and children passed down the street singing La Rama.

Your children and us singing together my granny’s songs,

while we cooked.

And so many years far away,

without trees or branches

we talked as much as possible as if the long distance call didn't cost

At that time, your trees and mine

were on different continents.

I am sure you must remember.

Please tell me, tell me that you remember, Liz,

today that you are forever lying on the belly

of a hill overlooking the sea and the Jamapa River,

where they cut the pines, and the air blows freely.

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Today your roots grow

while I only imagine that I have some.