Four weeks, three days, nine hours have passed since the last time I could smell you, yet I feel you are so close to me in my thoughts that I could almost touch you. Everything reminds me of you. Everything. The children, my aunt, the nuns, the sun, the rain, the sea, the sand, this blank paper that I fill with words that take me to you. The quill, the ink. I often dream of you Marcela, even when I’m awake. I draw you, and so wherever I look, I find you. I miss you so much. So much. I want to kiss your mole.
