I don’t necessarily want to be Seventeen Again

I don’t necessarily want to be seventeen again, drinking Cacique rum from one of Mom’s good glasses and sitting on the terrace looking across the twinkling city, where a mix of clouds and pollution hover midway up the Avila. I don’t necessarily want to be hearing the cars zoom through La Trinidad tunnel and smelling the sweet rot of mangos fallen from the tree and not eaten. I don’t necessarily need my surroundings defined by words like quinta and arepa, tinajero, yesquero and arrecho. But I do necessarily want to feel like I belong, like I did then.

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