San Juan with you was like a dream. The photos that I pulled out from the camera agreed. Condensation from the drizzle and sweat trapped under my impermeable track jacket had turned the images soft and diffracted. I can’t seem to edit it away, but neither do I want to. I like the softness. They mimic the sound of our shoes as they met the wet sand, the sensation of your skin as we huddled against each other in the rain, the drip of a heart as it thawed from a long and solitary winter.
How could it be that there in the Caribbean, we never fully saw the sun? By any measure of reason, it was a terrible day. But maybe it was better like that, to wade together through the imperfection, to stay dreaming in the muted haze than to be woken up by the sharp blades of light. That morning, the wind was vengeful. It made the palm leaves tremble in a way I had seen only once, during cyclone season on Réunion. At Castillo San Cristóbal, it blew us into a garita. Inside that dingy cliffside alcove, we stood and looked out over the ocean like the medieval sentries used to do. It must have been a lonely job. Maybe some had trysts. I imagined them with hair like yours—locks that curled up in the humidity. In the tight circular space, the stones amplified your voice.
In the shantytown of La Perla, crouched under the fortifications of Old San Juan, Carmelo Anthony’s basketball court was draped in regal lilac. I had no idea who Carmelo was, only that it was a landmark for the community. But the community was all elsewhere that day. There was not a single soul on the street. Slowly—despacito—we drifted past the colors, the only two people in the universe.
The buildings looked sad. The walls were all sopped by sea and rain, and chips of paint peeled down their cheeks. Some were missing roofs, others were clad in crushed glass and debris. A few were hollowed out entirely, no doubt the work of Hurricane Maria. What happened to their residents? I wondered. Once, they must have housed some happiness. One day, may we all find it again, be it in independence, union, or a fresh coat of paint.
From the sepia-tinted beach, we climbed over a mesa of rubble and steel and left the forlorn hues of La Perla behind. Replacing them was now a monochromatic plateau of gravestones. On an outcrop between Castillo San Cristóbal and the fortress of El Morro, we had trespassed into the realm of the dead. In the Old San Juan Cemetery, we let ourselves be pulled by the minutiae of the departed: a Basque name from the other side of the world, a broken marble hand, a headstone bleached white with absolution. You hadn’t told me yet how I made you feel so alive. Was it here when the thought first entered your mind?
The clouds could no longer hold back the rain on the promontory of Castillo San Felipe del Morro. There on the precipice of Old San Juan, beneath the arches of the Spanish fort, we reached the terminus of our walk. The void you left that afternoon was cavernous, a sinkhole that I tried to fill with mofongo, with art, history, and the company of others. But nothing and nobody could substitute you, and so in the end, I preferred to be alone, to stay dreaming, until we saw each other again.
Gregory Gioro 