Down by the broken tree house

One of the things I remember: staying in on a Saturday night, wondering what he was doing, who he was with. Did he miss me like I missed him, or was he out somewhere thinking of everything but the closeness we shared? It broke my heart imagining all the girls that got to come close to him in bars and on busses, brushing against his clothes, but at least I felt something and I pretend it was worth it.

Mother actually came home yesterday, like she said she would. "Where's Hernan" I asked, but she answered to something else. The little traces of mascara on her celadon skin told the story and somehow I wish she wanted to tell me about it. Maybe her pain could become mine so I'd know I'm still alive.