The Father Waiting for His Daughter at the Airport to Fly to Colombia

On that last Sunday—our seventh, sacred day,

the day of feeding fish in Tecaljetes—

we walked as we often did from our new home,

maybe only two blocks but a world’s journey for us.

You, SariSofi, held the whole trembling earth in your arms

as you tossed breadcrumbs onto the green water.

The garden gave us back a green more generous than spring—

Tecaljetes, the park you loved to say aloud,

its name a soft murmur in the reeds, your laughter echoing.

Your small fingers knotted in my hair,

the world shrank to a gentle circle where,

for a moment, the river’s current seemed to run backward.

Just for us. Just for the hush that told us nothing is ever truly lost, as long as we remember.

Mexico is a country I tried to make mine too.

As long as I love seeing you learn,

as long as I tried to build a home and a family here—

you, Sari-Sofi, are my only tie,

the living fruit of a deep love

that could not plant more seeds.

Sara Sofía is not a coin to flip,

nor a treasure to fight over or hoard.

I turn away from the theories, the reports—

“adult-centrism,” “child’s voice,” “well-being”

—because you are none of these.

Your voice is one of the most musical in the world:

remember I signed you up for music class to sing your favorite songs?

That voice—that is the one I love.

As long as you can read, my lovely and little daughter,

I hope one day you find these lines or hear them spoken,

just as they come from my heart,

meant only for you.

On the day of departure,

I wrote alone. Your ticket unused,

your name missing next to mine at the check-in desk.

Rain blurred every border;

the law, which promised to keep us together,

became an abstract wall,

a father writing silent lines in an airport...

Sometimes I imagine us—

laughing, landing together in Colombia,

your grandparents’ arms wide with welcome,

the family we visited every six months,

you, your mom and me, a trio of guides.

I know this should not weigh you down,

and I write not to lay any burden,

but to keep open a door only love can see.

You are so much more than paperwork,

so much more than a debate or a verdict.

You are the heart I built a house for,

the only family I have here,

the daily hope that gives meaning to a country

that sometimes feels less like home

when I am not with you.

You know how I love you,

how I tried—always, together with your mother—

to build a family.

Even when it was not possible,

I never renounced you,

never stopped walking beside you,

never lost the joy in every new day we shared.

My Sari-Sofy,

nothing and no one—not a law, not a quarrel, not time—

can erase the green of those quiet Sundays

or the love that made me, always, your father.

Love you—always.