I want to bid farewell to the friends in Madrid I never met
The men and women and youths who slept next to me in the hostel I never visited
To the comfort I found when those strangers knit me into the patchwork quilt of their souls
And there, I slid into place.
I want to thank the cook for making the paellas that never touched my tongue
The bartender for mixing the sangria that they but never I drank
I want to bid farewell to the man who taught me to tango as if I’d been there
I want to wave to the tourists with their cameras shielded against Spain’s loud sun, because they, in a way, could have been me but I, never them.
I want to send a letter to my brother and his wife
Tell them their house in Memphis was beautiful though I’ve never seen it
I want to engrave in pen the memories I never made, describing Tennessee’s fifth season in the flavors of barbeque and blues and bourbon.
I want to write an author’s acknowledgment to embed in the book I’ll never publish
Thanking the editor I’ll never meet, the agent I never begged to take me on
Instead, I give thanks to a kind husband and a house that jails me.
I give love to the kids I didn’t want but who are very real.
I make way for the family vacations to Disney World.
I push and pull a fighting Madrid into her timeout corner,
where her sun doesn’t blind us.
If only Madrid could know the way I love them,
which is enough to sacrifice my dreams for theirs,
then maybe she wouldn’t beat against the cage of my soul
where a family of four silhouettes shield themselves from her sunny streets
and sparkling nights,
with raised hands saying,
"It’s too loud for us here."
