Balmy summer nights and the scent of mandarin peels linger in the air, a fragrant reminder of fleeting moments. People move their hands when they speak, weaving invisible threads that connect the past, present, and future. In these gestures, everything that’s both lost and found comes alive, a dance of human contradictions.

Long fingers of light sweep through a train carriage, illuminating boys with soft, curious eyes and beautiful hands. Hands tell stories—old hands with calluses and dimples, new skin growing back whiter and cleaner. The touch of a hand, whether tender or brusque, is a testament to our need for connection.

I remember my mother bending over in the kitchen, or on the bed’s edge, rubbing lotion into her heels—a memory from long ago. Split lips and honeysuckles, abandoned roadside furniture, and the silent goodbyes people say with their bodies when words fail them. Familiar cities that don’t feel like home, and unfamiliar ones that do.

The smell of basil, cherry tomatoes, and burned butter with garlic and onion fills the air, a sensory journey that reminds us that none of us really know where we’re going, but we’re going anyway. All this blind, mad hope, and hearts that threaten to vibrate out of their nests. We are all going forward. None of us are going back. 🙏🏾❤️

©️Beatriz Esmer