When they give birth to you in a wrong place.
I was supposed to be born in Peru, where my dad was offered a job but he declined, due to the fact that my mom was pregnant with me.
I was their ‘ooops’ moment, eight years after my middle sister.
When I realised people have walked on the Moon – it took me four days to internalise – I decided it is time for me to step out into the world. Way premature, nearly costed me my life. But here I am.
I was born into the right kind of a rocky landscape. As harsh as the one on the Moon. Goats would be tied to rocks because rocks had loops and handles to tie animals to. Rocks were sharp. Rocks had my blood on them.
Rocks built and roofed houses, built walls and roads and bridges, or just gave sitting and chilling space. Some rough, some polished. Some slippery like death. Some hiding snakes. Some, underwater, hiding crayfish.
Rocks knew me. There is no point in hiding it. Rocks made me. In that sun, through those summers, hilltops blazing with forest fires. Rocks craved me and saved me.
A crack on the rock is a part of the whole.
