Red Roofs

Stories tend to begin at the beginning…
that moment along the thin thread of time that marks us
and sets in motion a narrative painted with details and nuance
from the perspective of the one who lived it—
or, in its absence, the one who tells it.

This story begins in a place of red roofs.
Roofs of such a particular color that they instilled in me
a sense of belonging and nostalgia—
so much so that, when I see them from above,
I can sense the smell of Lita’s kitchen,
Lito’s tight embrace, eyes filled with tears,
and the loving welcome of my aunt Grethel
(the mother who gave me life).

As those red roofs come into view,
we prepare to touch down on the runway at Santamaría.
The heart quickens,
the eyes hold back tears of emotion,
and that fleeting feeling of returning home enters me…
a home that is not always the same,
but home nonetheless.

A place where family and friends await,
but even more so, the memories of everything lived
in those slow, quiet lands
where I was born and spent the early years of a life
that shaped who I am today.

Those red roofs that welcome you
and mark the beginning of another journey—
one that, as we will remember together,
my children and grandchildren will one day recall
from their own perspective.

Because the storyteller changes,
and so do the characters,
but those red roofs remain—
like faithful companions who, without a word,
let you know you have arrived at your place of origin.

That place that will always hold
a protected and special space
in the lives of those of us who left our mark there,
and who, without question, were marked by it,
even if life has taken us far away.

Today I see those red roofs again,
and this story begins…
but not from the beginning.

This time, we begin from a repeated story,
a repeated experience—
one that, though shaped by time,
remains true to those memories
from more than thirty-five years ago.

This story begins in the present,
and more than my story,
it is a walk through the places that live in my memory,
and a reunion with all those people
who, over time, shared with me
a little or a lot of themselves…

the Litos, the uncles, the friends,
the bus drivers…
all those whom life gave me the honor of knowing,
and who entrusted me with their own moments of life.

And in sharing them with me,
asking nothing in return
other than to be remembered,
they will never be forgotten—
just like our red roofs.