The Past, Heavily-Filtered
José-Ariel Cuevas
The smell of Coco Chanel
hangs in the air.
Slowly, it begins to drift,
dancing seductively,
teasing me with its
aromatic beauty.
It is a familiar scent,
though the host
is a different vessel.
The one I remember,
she was a tapestry
of European elegance
and indigenous beauty,
with features as delicate
as a porcelain doll.
She had a penchant
for pilsners and lagers,
for Patrón and red wine.
I turn and turn,
staring madly at the crowd,
trying hard to see
if the past is on the verge
of being reborn.
I stand in the middle
of the pavement,
my nose, trying to track
the scent that is slowly fading
into the brisk air
of an early summer day
in San José, California.
Empty-handed,
empty-heart,
I start walking somewhere,
anywhere that is not here.
No matter where I am at,
the past, heavily-filtered,
is there, haunting me
with its rose-tinted,
five foot, three inch specter.
©2012 José-Ariel Cuevas
