“Volveré cuando las hojas caigan.” — I will return when the leaves fall.
Mis marcadores móviles had finally found their anchor. mis marcadores moviles
One rainy Tuesday in a temporary studio apartment in Buenos Aires, Sofía picked up an old copy of Rayuela —Hopscotch—by Julio Cortázar. She had read it years ago, in another lifetime. As she opened it, something fell out. “Volveré cuando las hojas caigan
Sofía had never been good at staying still. As a child, her grandmother would say she had hormigas en los pies —ants in her feet. Now, at twenty-eight, she had ants in her entire life. She had read it years ago, in another lifetime
She called them mis marcadores móviles —my mobile bookmarks.
She didn’t remember putting it there. In the image, she was laughing, her hair shorter, her eyes wider. Next to her stood a man with a crooked smile and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. On the back, in smudged ink: Sofía + Mateo. Granada. Puente de los Suspiros. Otoño.