“Unlocking the Secrets of ‘Streams’: Marcos Reyna’s Journey Through Time and Memory”
In the mornings I wake early to water plants. Money tree, ficus, gardenia. I grow them in a corner window above the basin of an indoor fountain. The water ripples, and the plants hang over the dish like scale model cottonwoods. I give them feasts of water and light, but their leaves still wither.
IX. Las Cruces, 2018
The morning after she left, I sat on the tera cotta floor—our dogs curled around me—staring into the walls we’d painted the year before. They were vast and white, like some abstract study of the infinitude of the sky. It feels good to be surrounded by nothingness, I lied to the dogs, the ether. Later that month, a realtor stopped by and walked through the house taking pictures. The dogs followed her, tails wagging expectantly. I put everything into a car and drove north, back to the city where I was born.
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