By Hatuey Ramos-Fermín
The ashes were just getting settled and they started losing their warmth.
You could hear a gush of wind calming the desolate silenced echo in the neighborhood.
The evening was coming fast as the whole city layered in smoke of various shades of oranges, pinks, light purples and greys. The smell of wet wood dampen all of my broken memories of that day. What was broken was never to be repaired nor replaced. Where it happened there were some remnants of a smell that wasn’t either plastic nor metal nor mold, but more like humid cockroaches. It seemed like a long time had past but only 5 miles per second long when it hit. The only clue was a scratch on the porcelain that resembled some city streets. What did it all mean? I looked to the sky and I saw nothing.
For thousands of years I waited for a moment like this one. At last the contact, that even though for a fraction of second was given to me only. The longing lingers pondering for answers. In the meantime, I build with leftover rubble in the place.
This will be the site to remind us what we are, symbolically and literally. Just look at the map, right there where the lines cross, I’ll be there, building.
Building and building, after building the rubble becomes a small-scale city, underground roots that grow into a collection of orbits of streets that resembled the lines of golden vinyl records. This is the place that you will come to see the stories written on its walls as medieval churches telling us what to believe without words. This will be your resting place. Come and visit me, you will know who you are.