A Saturday in La Comarca

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Some time ago, attending literary events on weekends was as natural to me as breathing. Gatherings, poetry readings, troubadour performances were for my soul a nourishment of verses and chords, like drinking water in the desert. Unfortunately, life, with its whirlwind of medical shifts and responsibilities, gradually placed distance between those encounters and my present. However, destiny, with its fine irony, decided that on a Saturday like today, my feet would lead me back to the literary café that always felt like home: La Comarca.

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There was no need for anyone to announce me, because upon crossing the door, the smell of freshly ground coffee and old paper enveloped me like an embrace. There they were, my friends, that couple who are a single heart beating in two bodies, and the duo of troubadours who with their guitars know how to tear the silence apart to dress it in melody. They invited me to their gathering, El juglar de la Comarca, and in their eyes I saw more than courtesy; I saw the complicity of those who know that poetry is not kept, but shared.

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I am a doctor, but I am also a woman who found in literature a refuge and in poetry a way of understanding the world. That afternoon, in front of the microphone, with the dim light of the evening filtering through the windows, I understood that both professions are not so far apart. One heals bodies, the other heals the thorns of the soul, and at that worn wooden table, where wine glasses and notebooks mingle, I felt that I was becoming whole again.

I read my texts like pieces of myself, of my sleepless nights, of my doubts and my small certainties, and while my voice got lost among the strings of the troubadours, time stood still. The words flowed like a river that tasted of Camagüey, of those colonial streets and that sky that here turns indigo when the sun bids farewell.

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My friends, the couple who are a lighthouse and an anchor, looked at me like those beings who illuminate the room without saying a word. Their duo, with their intertwined voices, wove a bridge between my verses and the hearts of those listening. There was laughter, there were complicit silences, there was that magical moment when music and poetry cease to be two arts and become a single prayer.

Thank you to destiny for not having erased these snapshots, because when I see them, the aroma of coffee returns to my nose, the melody of the troubadours echoes in my ears, and I feel, once again, the pulse of my Camagüey.

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Today, from the distance of time, I write this not only as a memory, but as a promise, because poetry does not expire, and the art of bringing souls together in a gathering is a miracle that deserves to be repeated. And although life sometimes keeps me busy, I know that La Comarca will still be there, with its dim light and its verses, waiting for my return.

🎸

🎸

_{✨ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! ✨
𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝑪𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒓.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏-𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 (𝒏𝒐 𝑨𝑰).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑼𝒑𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒚! 💛}