POSTCARDS: ANDREW 1992/BEIJING 2050
By Abel M. Folgar
.I.
My sister writes on the back of this memory
how little she was and what fun it seemed
to find this tangled mess so far from its
original mooring. Over a score now since
Andrew tossed them from an angry sea like
the mongrel fiberglass germs they were; the
leukocyte push effective, even if temporarily
so—to rest upon a pinhead this mangled muddle
of radar pings interlocked into echo-locating
themselves. What did they find? That they were
far from home? That their boundaries no longer
mattered? Their safe spaces now cozy alcoves for
the other detritus the storm jostled loose?
This memory finds me well, fading into my
future as the shades on those boats darkens.
I can only imagine that every corner of the NYC
you live in, every subway staircase you traipse,
every moment of quiet contemplation you’ve
managed; must be a different version of that
boat dogpile—you weren’t too young to let the
chaos go unnoticed then, and you’re old enough
now to appreciate how germs will always be
expelled by larger, angrier organisms—even if
you can find some fun in the gravity of that.
.II.
We often spoke of the future, how the brutal
weight of everything would crumble and leave
a new landscape for us to explore. We knew
when we were teenagers that our covenant
could not be broken; even if loves and wanderlust
set us on diverging paths. How did we ever agree
upon crafting wuxia epics? What did we know
of the East from our very Western environs?
That’s not our story; that’s Wong Kar-wai’s story
and this postcard of Beijing in 2050 reminds me
of movie nights hazy through cigarette smoke,
of the dreams we’d share when our routes
would inevitable converge—the fortuitous pretzel
lemniscate of elliptical travel. If you were at my
kitchen table now, you’d argue the practicality
of this veil dumped upon an unsuspecting populous;
a Le Corbusier cathedral-inspired dream, nervous and
recoiling from a Chihuly nightmare creeping in.
Maybe they were going for lily pads, I’d counter,
and you’d roll your eyes; clear distaste over a
hint of Monet in conversation knowing the following
day, we’d be on the move again; waiting
for a new landscape to emerge—a new postcard to
help echolocate us through time and space.
Photography Patricia Margarita Hernandez
Miami Chronicles 