Costumbres Argentinas

Listening to old tango songs reminds me of her. I feel closer to her. Feel as if we are not five thousand miles apart. I miss her terribly. The house is just a little more empty without her. The dogs, not as cheerful. The house, not as clean. My dad not as complete. I imagine her walking the streets of that beautiful city of my dreams. In that house I imagine in my head. Is it the same as I remembered? The windows open to let in wind, blowing the lace curtains, causing the light to fracture in between the little holes and loops of the lace. The walls a warm earthy sienna. The sound of cars driving past the complex just barely audible in the background. The loving chastising remarks of my grandmother, and my grandfathers equally as teasing quips coming from seperate parts of the house. Is she as loving with her as I, unabashedly, am with her? Is she as complete, but equally as incomplete as I am without her? Her with her mother, and me without mine? Is it as bittersweet as it is for me to be in this house without her? To be here, but not. She with her mother, but without us. She promised she would be less selfless. And I hope she kept-keeps, her promise. She deserves it.