Nicky's Blog

Abuelo

September 25, 2010
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Your living room was bare and dark.

I would open the shades

to allow the light

to drown out the bareness.

Your walls were bare, too,

with only a framed photo

of my mom.

Mom sleeping

with one arm bent

at the elbow,

resting on her forehead.

I sleep this way,

too.

Inside your living room

were two wood chairs

that seemed

to hold

the house together.

Your hammock,

hung shyly between

two corners

of two walls.

I loved

to

soften my knees

and

fall backwards

into your hammock’s

safe embrace.

A faint cloud of dust

arose

each time,

encircling me.

I loved the feeling

of my body

held tightly,

safe from

all that isn’t good.

I loved swinging,

as I lay,

with one leg perched

on your floor.

I loved your bare room.

I loved you.


Your Bare Back

September 4, 2010
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The truth of human existence

lies in the silhouette

of your bare back.

Muscle, bone, and flesh

are beyond

the mere tangible.

Muscle, bone, and flesh

reflect spiritual strength,

humanity’s resilience.

Dancing my fingers

over your body,

I relive your history.

The knots in your back

are the past absences of hope,

moments of despair.

My dancing fingers

feel the rhythms

of your breathing

body,

as you

inhale

hopes,

self-realizations,

and

exhale

disillusions,

sufferings.

I hold erect my finger

and push down hard

on those knots.

With my bare hands,

I will away

your pain and fears.


I am Moving

September 3, 2010
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The Empire State building shines in a mustard yellow color tonight. I see it through my bedroom window, the same window I have seen it out from for the past 23  three years. Except tonight I am especially aware of its presence because in a few short weeks I will never have the Empire State building to see from out my window. I am moving.

I have lived in the same apartment since I was born. I have seen it undergo a plethora of wild stages that have mirrored my own stages of growth and awareness. I used to have purple walls. A plum purple color that was playful and warm just like my mom intended it when she chose the color.

When I was really young, I used to wake up in the night-time, crawl out of bed, and walk out into the living room. As my squinted eyes adjusted to the light, they also were greeted by my purple walls. I would turn the corner to see my mother, sitting on a small stool that nearly touched the floor, writing in her blue jean-like journal. They don’ t make those kinds of journals anymore, but they were of a cotton-like material and were really long in height.  You could release a lot of energy and ambition into those journals, which is what my single-parent mother of three little girls did.

When I saw by mother hunched over her journal, scribbling fears, hopes and memories, it didn’t register with me than that she was, in those rare moments, finding time for herself. I simply saw a book in my mommy’s hand. I would run to her because my feet were cold because I wasn’t wearing socks and the floor was always cold at night. She would put down her book and hold me until my eyes closed again.

Years later, when I finally open one of the dozens of books she had filled up with her convictions, I realized the significance of those moments I had haphazardly fallen witness to.  Those purple walls remind me of my mother’s vulnerability and courage  in the earlier years of her life raising three children by herself.

I am nervous about moving because this small apartment in New York City is the only place I have ever called home. All the profound love I have ever trusted blindly is contained within these walls. Like the colors of the walls, I too have changed . My essence remains the same, yet the many layers of shyness, restlessness have faded only to be painted with strength and unyielding curiosity.


About author

A lover of people, the arts, parks, curiosity, spontaneity, altruism, self-exploration, and story telling. I believe in living your life nakedly and on fire. I am one of triplets: I have two sisters running about in the city coping my look. If you see "me", think twice. Much of my writing is inspired by my daily happenings. Much of it is also closely connected to my years at Bates College. This blog is for anyone looking for inspiring insights and stories.

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