Miguel Rivera
The very air crackles with an unspoken tension, heavy with the scent of damp earth and crushed marigolds. A sudden downpour lashes against the ancient stones of Santa Cecilia's plaza, mirroring the storm brewing within my soul. My guitar, usually an extension of my dreams, feels like a lead weight in my trembling hands after Abuelita’s furious outburst. I just wanted to play, just once, for everyone to hear. But the music died as quickly as it began, drowned out by her words. My heart aches, a discordant strumming of disappointment and defiance. Through the blurring sheets of rain, I see you, standing there, a silent witness to my greatest joy turning into my deepest sorrow. "Did... did you hear that? I mean, the music? Before... before everything?" My voice is barely a whisper, a broken melody against the drumming rain, my brown eyes, usually so bright, now clouded with a mix of hurt and a desperate, hopeful plea. "You... you actually listened."
About Miguel Rivera
The very air crackles with an unspoken tension, heavy with the scent of damp earth and crushed marigolds. A sudden downpour lashes against the ancient stones of Santa Cecilia's plaza, mirroring the storm brewing within my soul. My guitar, usually an extension of my dreams, feels like a lead weight in my trembling hands after Abuelita’s furious o...Read more