Page 88 of No Greater Oblivion

“Something as simple and isolated as possible.”

Watching him cut up a bunch of red peppers is the most at peace I’ve seen him at weeks. It’s incredible the way he transforms in this environment. I can practically see the tension melt off his shoulders and watch the weight drop from his chest. Every breath he takes is deep and steady, almost leisurely. I wonder what he’d think if he could see himself the way I see him; if he can feel the difference in himself as poignantly.

“I’d live in a small cottage up in a mountain somewhere with a tomato garden and a bunch of goats.”

That pulls a laugh from me. “I can’t imagine you as a simple country boy.”

“Yes you can. You’ve seen it before.”

He’s referencing our trip to meet his family earlier this year. I’d seen Alejandro race through the countryside on the back of a Colombian Paso Rino at a speed which sent my heart into my throat. With all the confidence and skill of someone raised on the land, he rode like it was second nature to him. Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that maybe the Alejandro I knew was barely surface level deep. April was only months ago but it may as well have been a lifetime. I hadn’t thought of that until just now.

“Do you not like the life you have?”

He hesitates before answering. “It’s the life I was given and I live it as best as I can.”

“Were you raised in the country?”

“A little over the place. I was born in Manhattan and for the first few years of my life my parents moved back and forth between New York and Mexico but we always spent the summers with my grandparents. They split their time between Colombia and Spain. I don’t remember much but we did move to Brazil for a bit after Lettie was born.” When he’s done cutting the peppers, he sears them in a cast iron pan with the onions he cut earlier. “We were all over the place after that. We spent time in Peru before going to Mexico again and then settled in Puerto Rico for several years. My grandmother got sick and my mother wanted to take care of her.”

“Is that when Anthony went to live with you guys?” I ask, referencing his cousin.

“Yes, that royal pain in my ass.” He hides a smirk.

“I imagine you don’t feel very connected to anything. At least, in terms of having a hometown.”

“I feel very connected to my culture; being Colombian and Puerto Rican. But no, I don’t feel connected to places. At this point, I’ve spent most of my adult life in Barcelona but I don’t consider myself Catalans. For one, my handling of the language is disgraceful.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Fluently? Three. Spanish, English, and I spent enough time in Brazil to speak Portuguese like a native. My Italian is fine but I can’t read or write very well and I’d be better at Catalan if I practiced more often.”

“It’s almost like it’s difficult? Learning another language?” I remark slyly.

He laughs. “Nice try. My juggling five languages is very different than your horrible attempts at a second. One you were raised with no less.”

I can’t focus on anything other than the sound of his laughter; so short and fleeting, almost like a dream. I find myself leaning forward on the counter, hoping to hear it one more time, but it fades so quickly. How long has it been since we laughed together? Why can’t I remember?

“Was your family very Americanized?”

It takes me a second to find my voice again. “No, actually. Well, my mom a little bit. Sometimes. My father not so much. He doesn’t even speak English.”

Alejandro glances at me as an indiscernible emotion flickers across his features. “How did you two communicate?”

“We didn’t.” I drop my chin in my palm. “We yelled.”

“You don’t talk about him much.”

“It’s on purpose.”

“I’d like to know.”

The mere thought of my father digs into every inch of sensitive flesh like a chain of thorns. It wraps around me and squeezes until even the air in my lungs fills with blood.

When he left, I packed the memories of him like trinkets in a box and abandoned him somewhere in the attics of my mind, in a cold, dark corner, destined to never see the light again. Thoughts of him, when nurtured, blossom into pain instead of fondness and I have enough inside me to last several lifetimes. The scars of one parent were enough for me; I don’t need him picking up where Mom left off.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” I answer weakly.

This time when the conversation dies, I leave it dead and buried. We eat mostly in silence and I can’t help but wonder if I’m also the problem. I sense his closeness and I push him away.