Everyone is writing about their life in quarantine. Remembering how masterpieces have been written during past pandemic times. We are waking up every morning to numbers that go up and up, they estimate 300 thousand deaths in the world by August. Which country led the number of deaths yesterday? Who’s taking the lead now?

I turn on the news while making breakfast, warming up with the heat of the stove, washing the forgotten dish from yesterday, I hear that we are the epicenter of the pandemic. While the eggs get cooked, I disinfect the kitchen table and countertops. A…

Since I can’t get me to work on my thesis, I’ll let my frustration open me up.

To begin with, I hate that I am still writing it. I wish I could let it go or finish it already. I’m in my last chapter. I’ve been reading like an idiot to know everything about the before and now of what we vaguely called “object of study”. Since I will never know it all, I stopped at one point too late to realize I can’t see my desktop’s image behind all the pdfs, folders, screen shots and word docs.

This image…

Book: Brave Journeys/Pasos valientes

A high school auditorium is filled by cheerful students who are chatting, laughing, and checking their phones, until one of them walks to the podium. Shy yet confident, she begins to read out in Spanish a story that she wrote, displayed in English on the projector screen. As the student continues reading, silence grows. Teachers turn around to check on their students, now caught in the narration of the teenage girl at the podium. Her story echoes a young voice whose experiences and thoughts resonate with her peers sitting in front of her.

Echoing the experience…

After the storm

Me agarro del goteo que salpica

(el halo frío de mis manos)

de una ola de sirena contenida en el semáforo

del siseo de la lluvia al caucho

alguien sirve nieve

la furia de dos metales que se encuentran


un claxon a lo lejos se enerva y yo

contengo la ranura del sonido

But the object I blame the most is my huge window, and the light that comes inside reflecting in all the yellow, oranges and browns colores, my favorites

My grandfather got me a guitar when I was 12. A whole complete music instrument for me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wish I had seen his look at me being so happy for actually getting something I asked. Papa-abuelito, that was how we called him. One word made out of two: dad and grandpa. Adding the diminutive “ito” for love. Papa-abuelito we called him. In pictures he is always smiling, dancing or holding a bottle of beer. He loved to take pictures as well. I wish I had one with him. One where there is only us.


Natalia 2

A poet writer. Natalia Chamorro lives in Queens, NY. Originally from Lima. Natalia writes, sometimes a lot, others not too much.

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