by Cristóbal Salazar
I lived where mountains stood close by
to our home as if eager
to absorb all our hushed confidences.
The air of Cochabamba was thin as a veil.
In the mornings the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled
with the diesel fumes of the trufis, and vendors’ voices
felt like family when they didn’t know our names.
I learned to count in rhythm with market voices,
dream by tracing the kites’ dance in the sun, and listen
at my grandmother’s feet to stories far older
than the pavement we tread on.
Sometimes, the sky was such a vibrant blue, it felt like a pledge.
Other times, rain descended hard and fast
an outburst of the earth’s whims.
But at all times, the world was full of color
embroidered on blankets, splattered on walls,
or embodied in the joyous shrieks
of barefoot children in the dust.
Back then, I had no clue that I was learning
belonging
the place we carry in ourselves,
and which we will never abandon.
I still feel the mountains breathing
whenever I shut my eyes.
About the Author
Cristóbal is a Bolivian-born storyteller with a curious mind and an easy laugh. He immigrated to the United States when he was thirteen, carrying with him the mountains, music, and vibrant colors of Cochabamba that continue to shape his imagination. Whether he’s exploring new ideas or connecting with people from different backgrounds, Cristóbal brings a sense of openness and heart to everything he does.