With the magic of rivers in her chest, she wrote to unburden her pain, to sustain it in hope. She knew that anguish could not be killed, for it carried signs that save us and grant us an ontological flight. Enchanted by words, she distinguished between the soft and the hard ones, using them to empty her incendiary soul and create beauties.

Her favorite pastime was to feel. In a world where people prefer to buy rather than feel and like, she drenched herself in feeling. She plowed the past, appeased ghosts, and faced subterranean mischiefs. Her fantasies protected her from madness, drawing from stories where consistent and flavorful experiences dozed.

Maria saw transcendence in everything, even in pots. For her, cooking was to produce meaning, to soak feelings and words, to season grudges and resentments along with the meat. She marinated her conscience and prepared forgiveness. The story she rehearsed to tell was woven in the embers, a fire that burned, an emotion that soothed and touched a piece of the sky.

The encounter of the woman with the truth, the right language to affirm herself in it, was an epiphany, an exuberant joy. When that happened, the world lit up, and she found peace in the words and feelings that guided her. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer