Here is my father, when he was young.
He made my sister, Rosio., and me.
I met him once, for a few days, when I was seven. I've never seen the town he
grew up in, and lives in, in Mexico. I've never met my half-sister.
It's loss, right? Of a culture, of a family. It is, unambiguously.
On the other hand...
Look at my sister, Rosio.
Here she is in Mexico with my cousin, Josue.
No one but my father, my exact, absent father, could have given her to me - this particular her.
And, unexpectedly, because of the strange way things are folded, here I am meeting my cousin Josue in Portland.
No one but my father, my lost father, could have given me to them - this particular me.
It makes me think about how everything I have, I have because of things I don't have.
I have this day, you, this conversation because people have left whom I miss, whom I would have back, if I could get them back.
I love this day, exactly how it is. I love you and our conversations. I wouldn't give you up for anything.
I can mourn things that are missing and be overcome with love for what is here.
It's not hard. The hard thing is to show it all to you.
I'd like to. I'd like to show you my lost and found, strange, ambiguous heart. I'd like to see yours. Maybe it's impossible with these simple sense organs, this finite language - but, I'm going to keep trying anyway. I hope you will too.
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