Entry 1 - March 5, 2025

I was searching for something I never had before: assurance. Assurance in who I was and where I came from. When crying on the floor or on the train or in the bathroom stall, I pictured my grandmothers’ face, long beautiful fingers smudged with charcoal. And the Andes mints on top of the fridge that I wish I could still gorge myself with. And the comforting lull of Catholic mass on in the other room while we played blackjack on the kitchen floor. And the smell of detergent and tortillas and mud and my childhood. I could go on and on, and I do.