The city square is always alive with music: the “hippies” playing the drums, the “señores” playing the marimba, or the trio singing the traditional boleros. On Friday night, an old couple joined the trio. They danced as if nobody was watching. I was:
I want to love and be loved to the rhythm of the boleros. I want to listen to the trio next to you, and then memorize each musical note with our bodies so we never forget to love to the rhythm of the boleros.
The guitar’s string will resonate every time we walk together through the sandy or rocky paths that make us belong. Our feet will walk slowly, right to left, left to right, as if life were a soft Mexican ballad.
We will need each other as if we were to die if our existences grow apart. We will never say it; we will let our bodies talk as the deeply sad love song dictates.
Every night will be the last song, and we will sing it in our souls while our minds rest. We will ask each other, silently, if tomorrow the music will be there for us. Then, we will just have to wait for the next dance, while our hearts sing together.