Words: Julieta Garzón Campos (she/her)
For Gloria
Time envelops you like silk. There is silence, beneath the laughter. There is uncertainty as I tighten my fist. I still hold on to the thread of your voice. No longer tangible, our final embrace is suspended in air and flesh and photograph.
Sometimes I can see you: your wings spread wide and fluorescent as you settle on a delicate flower. You greet me with the colour red. And just as quickly, you are gone. To feel your absence is the first souvenir.
Five years ago this spring, you took your final breath, and the world froze still, unthawing
as Time unravels. The past is contained in landmarks of you, teaspoons collected in travels of your youth.
If only Time could stop, (frozen still) like the arms on the silver watch that clutches my wrist. Another souvenir you left behind — glistening as if to say, I wish we had more time. For you knew me before I knew myself, and now you watch from afar as I navigate the terrains of adulthood. Time envelops you, unravelling like silk, and I am left with the weight of your departure, ice on my wrist.
I want to be trapped in the light of your explosion. I want to be blinded by every word you ever said to me, by every sliver of laughter. You are the spectre of my mortal soul: an unwavering gaze, a steady hand. Don’t leave, don’t leave.
My heart latches on. Your watch, once cold to the touch, will grow accustomed to the warmth of my wrist. The memory of you will remain on the silver surface that now gleams with my reflection. Will I start to look like you, and sound like you, too?
Are my bones like your bones, and will I fit in your shoes?
I am the eldest daughter in a line of strong-willed women. I am the souvenir of my mother, my grandmother, and those before them. I was guided by loving arms and finely-painted melodies. You taught me to move to the rhythm of my past, and to embrace the words that rush through my fingers like liquid.
In limbo, I hear you speak to me like you used to. You are hidden by a veil and the haze of a dream; I hold on regardless. Just to graze the threads of your voice is enough. If I try hard enough, I can keep you here.
Where are the souvenirs of the mind — how long will I hear them, and will I still feel them
when I lose my grip?
Will Time ever stop (frozen still), or will we disappear into the mist of memory, the momentum too much to bear?
One day, when you merge into the orchid petals and hummingbirds and mandarin trees, you will be the light that I look for in spring.
It comes to us all — even the sun will surrender its reign to the darkness. Remnants of light become death. Memories carefully crafted, only to be swallowed by air and forgotten. The trickster, Time, will smile in recognition, for we are all but souvenirs of the universe.
