My dearest Evelina,
I hope this letter finds you well. I hope this letter finds you. However you are, I wish these words find you.
What am I supposed to say now that we are so far apart? I would like to lie to you and say that I am looking forward to my return or that I cannot wait to be back. But, as the distance prevents me from embracing you, I am more uncertain of the future than I was of the past. Still, I am writing this letter trying to find a way to be together in spite of everything.
Like we used to be.
Do you remember that time we went to Acapulco? It was soon after the carrion flowers took over the Pacific coast. What a gruesome, smelly place to go on vacation. Remember the color of the sand? Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see the blackish-maroon beach that irradiated a green-tinted glow at night. I remember the waves moved as if they were tired of coming and going to wash off piles of flip-flops and plastic bags. In the early morning, the ebbing tide would show shards of broken glass and rusted electronic parts washed up on the shore.
You drove a beat-up Tsuru, that hunk of junk with an always-attached trail of black smog that surprisingly endured the melting asphalt of the Autopista del Sol there and back again. Your hands trembled on the wheel as if tapping coded messages, or as if you were afraid of something.
When we arrived, the resort’s guide told us to be aware of aguamalas at the beach. You were so confused because you did not know he was talking about jellyfish, and you thought he was referring to the water as an evil being. I laughed at you until my stomach hurt.