You. Me. The others. We are built from paths With roots in infancy. Mine are salty. What about yours ? Are you also at home in cities that lay along the coast ? Are your cells made of the same elements as mine ? Do we speak the same unspoken language ? Do we share the same absence of gods ? Do our skins like the heat of the sun ? Memory is a path That we draw On our inner maps A tattoo of cuttlefish ink On our neuron skin. Who are we, If not similar strangers ? One, but so different From the trajectories That expelled us to life. Memory. The builder. The Gaudi architect Who will never finish His cathedral of hopes. Mum, Dad, Are you still there ? Little neighbor friends, Are you available For a game of football ? I walk, I walk, continuously Leaning on the frail child of my past Invigorated by sporadic memories Hiccups of remembrance In the desert of my absence. Return me to the sea when I’m gone Erase me from the surface of earth. Just make room for my art In your sensitive self Your loving memory. -Christian Gastaldi