Juan Luis Guzmán – Blood Meditations V

Juan Luis Guzmán

Blood Meditations V

Excerpts from an essay

I know someday I will feel what my father does. Someday, my body too will become insufficient. Isn’t that the duty of a son? Of a body? Released from the hospital, he is back at his home in Jalisco, which was his father’s home, which will be mine. In the evenings he sits on his mother’s couches, relics that are often renovated to keep them from being discarded. The dining table, her broken chairs, the stove, the dressers, all of them have undergone some sort of repair to keep them alive for another generation. In the closet, I find a stack of records with my father’s name in ink, penned by his own teenage hand. Play that one, he says when I hold up an album with a man holding a sad guitar. The music awash through the house, he sits expressionless. I ask him what he’s thinking about. Nothing, he says.  The man’s falsetto rings through every bloody wound. 

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