It was my first Thanksgiving abroad. Even the rowdy Spanish tennis players from my dorm had been invited to spend the holidays in a home. My initial instinct was to travel somewhere remote, gray, an ocean of sorts. I was broke.
The entire campus was a combination of empty parking spots, fallen leaves, and lingering breaths the wind had not felt the necessity to carry away. For once, I felt free to roam around.
I saw you pulling into your building’s driveway. You got out of the car and walked with your head down. I could still see the bruises on your face. I’m sorry.
Roberto Carcache Flores is a Salvadoran writer. His first poetry chapbook “A Condensation of Maps” has been recently published by Dink Press.
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