I took these photographs last Wednesday, on a day that felt unmistakably characteristic of the season: winter. And that alone is relevant enough to mention in this post. In my city, in my country, and I would say throughout the northern part of South America, the seasons are usually not as noticeable as they are in other latitudes around the world. That afternoon, the thermometer read 24°C, it was around 3 p.m., and there was a light, cool breeze that made the moment even more pleasant as I walked toward a place deeply connected to my childhood: The Path, leading back to a place of rebellion, youth, and memories.
Keep this in mind: I am a 33-year-old woman, a mother to a beautiful eight-year-old girl, and the partner of a man who still captivates and moves me. Yet, despite everything that defines my life today, I could not stop the excitement from showing in my body and on my face as I got closer to a place I have loved for most of my life. The strange part is that, until that very moment, I had never realized just how much I loved it. It was as though my body remembered something my adult mind had quietly forgotten. And perhaps that is one of the strangest things about growing older: sometimes you return to a place expecting to find an old memory, only to discover that the memory has been carrying a much larger piece of you all along.
Yes, it was a small but beautiful skate park that used to be our meeting point, the place where I would gather with virtually all of my friends. That connection alone was something enormous, meaningful, and powerful for a teenager, as I once was. But there is another layer to this story. Most of those friends, for one reason or another, eventually emigrated. And not simply from the city, but from the country itself. So finding myself there again, standing near the place where so much of my adolescence happened, brought an almost overwhelming mixture of feelings. The place was still there, but the people who had given it meaning were scattered across the world. Somehow, the geography had remained while the life I associated with it had disappeared.
I am not exaggerating when I say that the knot in my throat became so intense that I had to make an effort not to cry in front of my daughter. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a mother showing emotions in front of her child, of course, but in that particular moment, I would have had to explain why I was suddenly standing there fighting back tears. Even now, as I write this, my heart starts beating faster and my mind fills with so many beautiful, funny and genuinely happy memories that I know exactly where this is going. Sometimes those tears come from happiness, simply because I was lucky enough to live through those moments. Other times, they come from the painful realization that finding that same warmth and companionship again is not easy when you are no longer 17, 18 or 19. Rock and roll, rebellion, honest smiles, friendship, community and that almost indescribable feeling of belonging were part of the people I loved and still miss terribly. Perhaps life is, among many other things, the collection of memories we are fortunate enough to keep.
Photographs become postcards of precise moments, fragments of a particular time and place, but sometimes they become something much more than that. They become anchors to connections we never realized we needed so desperately. These photographs became a bridge between an ordinary walk meant to get some exercise and something much deeper: my connection to my friends, to adolescence, to some of the sweetest years of my life, and to moments of happiness, togetherness and tenderness that I still treasure. I hope you can find at least a little of that feeling in these images. And if you cannot, that is okay too. Just know that what you are looking at represents far more to me than an old skate park or a few photographs could ever explain. Thank you for reading me, from the bottom of my heart, guys.
