As the dancer, she’s sharp. Sharp are her eyes, her nose and her slender hands. She carries a childhood freshness, leaving a fragrance of spring in her wake. Her innocence clashes with realities that do not match her idealism. Her romantic love is tested by everyday selfishness and pragmatism. With her youthful, apprentice-like imagination, she claims she could write scripts for the kinds of soap operas housewives only watch while ironing. Honest with others and with herself, she often humbly confesses what she does not know. Admiring almost everything and easily frightened, she doesn’t seem to measure her own strength.
I wish the world were hold by women like her – women who, with intelligence, have held onto the very things ordinary people leave behind at their birthplace or bury alongside their hopes. Her fuel is love, her batteries are human relationship. She is an angel to be preserved.
We shared many conversations, jokes that only the two of us laughed at, classes in university amphitheaters, emails, tequila shots, sandwiches, and Cuban dances. I would like to take her with me on my travels and to ensure that nothing and nobody can hurt her sensitivity or diminish her potential.
She is like a sister. And as the famous French song goes: « For me, one thing is sure: she is from somewhere else. »
Zyphera 