Nine Flowers for Julio
by Mariana Dávila Moreno
January 11, 2023
Dear Julio,
I’m drinking the mate you brought us a month ago from Argentina. I keep my stash of it next to the postcard you sent before coming back to visit. The one of La casa Rosada. Martha never stops buying flowers now, since you gave her that porcelain vase. She almost seems happy, for a change. Remember when you first met her, seven years ago? Among the rum and cigarette smoke at one of Jorge’s legendary parties. Soda Stereo was blasting through the speakers and through Cerati’s voice you heard her, her laughter. You said it was so loud and contagious, taking over every corner of the room. Suddenly, everyone was laughing too. It was the first time you felt youthful since your exile from Buenos Aires. And I knew what you meant. Her laugher used to make me smile too and I miss it; I swear I do. Martha rarely laughs now, the toll of the years and your continued absence, have hardened her.
The rest of my sisters are okay, too, I guess. Carla is about to graduate from college. Economics, remember? Julieta is doing better now; it’s been hard for her since the abortion, and Felipe doesn’t call anymore. Margarita remains her big, cheery self. I don’t know how she does it. Maybe it comes with being the oldest, or with the fact that she has always seen us more as her daughters than as her sisters. Yes, she’s still knitting and yes, she made you that cover for your mate flask. Yes, blue and white with a sun in the middle, just like your flag. So you better come visit soon, before she gives it to another Argentinian out here.
I don’t recall if we’ve talked about this before, but I’ll be honest. Even though I love my sisters, it’s hard not to think of this place sometimes as a García Lorca play. Have you ever read The House of Bernarda Alba? My point exactly.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
It’s been a while. For some reason I keep thinking about your story of the tabby cat. Do you know which one I’m talking about? Sábato, your neighbour’s. You told me he used to sneak into your house at nights. The first time he did, your mother screamed so loud that you swore that was it, that the death squads had come for your brother at last. But then you heard your mother’s laughter and you never felt such relief. A month later, the death squads did in fact come, only they didn’t take your brother—he would be safe for another year—but your neighbours. Your mother wouldn’t take Sábato in, although she left food for him every day. You liked to see him through your window every morning, clinging to his abandoned house like a forgotten relic. Until one day, like so many others in Argentina at that time, he just wasn’t there anymore. One, two, five, eleven days and you knew that he had disappeared without a trace, too.
You will find this silly but it’s been a week now since I noticed a maroon cat loitering outside our living-room window—an omen, perhaps.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
You said that, when traveling, it is best to pack light: socks and underwear, three pairs of jeans, two sneakers and no more than five books. I wouldn’t know, of course. The only trip I ever made was when you took us to Oaxaca, three years ago. Right now, I’m looking at the framed picture of all of us in Monte Albán. There are some others that I keep stored in a box: you and Martha on the balcony of Santo Domingo; you giving me a piggyback ride by the pool in our hotel. That was the day you told me about the flight that took you here—twelve hours from Buenos Aires to Guadalajara; you could barely believe Mexico was in America too. But at that point in your life, you were through with certainties. After Videla. After the Dirty War. After your brother. I know because the memories were parading across your eyes, just as they would across a projector.
Tell me, did Martha ever understand all of those losses you are made from? I get the sense that she didn’t and still doesn’t. That’s why she can’t make sense of all your comings and goings. Your relentless need to go back to Argentina after all these years. The strange urge to return to Mexico after realizing your exile has made you a foreigner to somewhere you once called home. The sadness of not knowing in which of the two places you belong. In neither, maybe.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
I hope you are feeling better. I was sorry to read about your depressive episode in your last letter. I know this might sound like the same threadbare assurance everyone uses after you tell them you’ve been feeling blue, but I swear I understand. I sometimes have those kinds of attacks too: the racing heart, the shortness of breath, the sweaty palms, the ribcage contractions. It can feel as if a Sumo wrestler was sitting on your chest. I’m sorry, it’s been a while since our last letter and my metaphors are getting rusty. What I mean to say is that I’m here and you can always write to me about these things.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
When are you coming back again? Things are dull and grey here without you. I can’t stop thinking about all of the possible explanations as to why your appearance sets the world aloft. And I know it’s hard, Julio, because from the window of your eyes, things have always been the same, but see, Julio, if only you could view the world through my eyes then perhaps you’d understand. Suddenly everyone at home starts to behave in very strange ways, almost against their nature. For example, Carla begins to make her bed every Sunday. Julieta, for a change, enjoys doing the dishes after every meal. Margarita starts knitting colourful scarfs when she sees you and Martha, in case some day you two finally decide to get married. And speaking about Martha, what can I say about her? What can I tell you that you don’t know already? After all, you know her better than she knows herself. But slowly, and without you to bear witness, she is changing. Will you believe me if I tell you that she doesn’t buy flowers anymore? She barely leaves the house, in fact. And she has started to blame me for everything: the bananas that turn black, the unmade beds, the ugly weather, and even your absence. And, here’s the secret that’s been eating me up, Julio: deep down, I have a gut-wrenching feeling that she might be right. As you know, I’m guilty of certain things.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
When you called to say you weren’t coming anymore, Martha left the duck in the sink and it spoiled. No one remembered to put it back in the fridge or cook it, as was the plan all along. You wouldn’t believe the smell—like swamp water, like burnt diesel, like waking up with vomit in your bed. But you shouldn’t blame us, Julio, because when you’re not here, we never get anything done. We forget things as if they were memories. We let dust gather on the furniture and leave stains resting in the guest room. And without realizing it, the house slowly deteriorates with our neglect.
Is it the wedding of your friend, from the Resistance days, that’s really keeping you from visiting us? Or is it something else? Martha and I in the same room, perhaps? I do wonder.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
I had a weird dream last night. Distressing, in the same way the dream of showing up to school naked is, or the one where you get fired from the same job over and over again. I was standing on the shore of a beach and there was a plane flying over the water. Suddenly, you were pushed out of it, your torso was sliced in half. Coming out of you, there were hundreds of black witch moths flying out into the sea. I was rooted to the sand watching it all, unable to move.
Didn’t you tell me a similar story? Are your memories taking root in my dreams?
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
I’m sorry that it isn’t getting better. I don’t really know what else to say. If you can see how much my sisters and I love you, then perhaps you would know how much you matter. In another world, I would hold your hand until you shed your pain away. Embrace you until I squeeze the melancholy out of your heart. In another world, I would water the plants with your tears, show you how you can grow new life from heartache. In this world, instead, all I have for you is conventional advice. Turn a deaf ear to the nightmares and storms of the mind. Drink mate. Read the damned poets. Write.
Not necessarily in that order.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
Today, I woke up to the chirp of parrotlets and Martha’s laughter. It’s been so long since the last time she laughed that I’ve almost forgotten the sound. How contagious and cheerful it is, like a parade. It roars around the walls and stays in your ears, warms up your insides. I have missed it, this remnant of the person that she was. I think about it; it’s weird that this sound comes from the same woman who screams and points and judges non-stop. Sometimes she looks at me with such contempt that I wonder if she knows. But today there’s something forgiving in her stare. As I enter the kitchen, she smiles at me and then unexpectedly, she hugs me tightly, like she used to when we were kids. She says you are coming soon, for real this time. Don’t hate me for saying this but the first thing I felt when she told me wasn’t happiness but envy. Why didn’t you let me know first?
Carla and Julieta were dancing with glee at the news. Margarita already started planning everything for your arrival: how much food we will need, the time it will take us to sweep up the house to perfection. And I, of course, am waiting for whatever Martha instructs me to do. Same old story, every time.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
Martha has put me in charge of getting the flowers: six white roses and three sunflowers. Those were the same ones you gave her, ages ago, on your first date. I don’t know if she gave me this task because it’s the easiest and I tend to forget things, or if it is because she is punishing me. I have enough with her silence and reproach, but this is a different kind of cruelty. Not even the prospect of your visit has made her more forgiving. She keeps questioning me, why the only thing I ever do is write. But she doesn’t know, Julio, how can she guess that I’m creating you slowly? You start to emerge from my pen, unhurriedly, as if it pains you to begin to exist, and every word that brings you to life comes with a memory. I just need to write about your fingers to feel their texture on the small of my back, or describe the tone of your voice to remember the heat of your breath in my ear. If only you knew how painful it is to reinvent you in every sentence. It’s as if I like doing this to myself to feel your presence, to not feel so lonely, because you know, Julio, that there are very few things worse than having to fight against oneself every minute.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
The house was beginning to give some space for hope. We opened all the curtains to make the darkness recede. Then we scrubbed the floors over and over again with bleach and cleaner spray. We washed the blankets and sheets. We washed ourselves, too. Margarita took out mama’s old recipe book. Carla went to the organic market to buy groceries. But we weren’t ready for the news. It was all for nothing, all for nothing; was it all for nothing? The house still smells like lavender but the darkness has crept back in.
Love always,
Luisa
*
Dear Julio,
It’s been five months already and today the morning smells like fog. From my bedroom I picture the wet sidewalks, the same ones you will never again mark with your footsteps. I should go downtown to buy the flowers for Martha, who is cooking: six white roses and three sunflowers. You were to arrive today. The table was supposed to be set before your big entrance. The flowers, as well, were to be resting in Martha’s porcelain vase; the duck would have been unspoiled this time and displayed at the centre of the table, waiting only for your arrival.
At the market, all is strawberries and gardenias. I have a hard time getting the flowers Martha wants. I almost pray for the florist not to have them, but one is never that lucky. My trail back home can be summarized in less than two-hundred steps and twelve sighs. I take my time to get back. It’s as if my steps are doing their best to delay me from coming to where I know you are not. I place the key inside the wooden door, twist it carefully, as if fearing something, as if already expecting a signal of your tangible existence. And when I push the door open, you’re not there, so I write to you from the table of the dining room, as I do every Sunday, and the duck is not ready yet, and the flowers are missing.
Martha won’t stop screaming; if you could only see her, I would love to create a portrait of her in my letters to you. But I know you wouldn’t have liked it and I fear everything so much. Without you, the rooms are filled with silence, and sadness, and dust. I want to tell you that sometimes my heart feels so heavy that I think it’s made of lead. How can I explain that sometimes it’s a hard task to keep on breathing, because there are moments that are being erased by time? Would you like me to describe what happens every other instant? How Julieta breaks the plates after dinner, how Carla starts to cry because everything is so untidy, or how it has been more than eight months since Margarita stopped knitting? Or should I tell you how Martha is still complaining about the six white roses and three sunflowers I didn’t take to the wake?
And the doorbell doesn’t ring, and I can’t hear your footsteps, and the duck is still raw and the table is not set. And I’m still writing. And I’m still hoping, just like I did when I heard about your suicide, that you aren’t dead, and that you don’t only exist because of my pen.
Love always,
Luisa