Todo Cambia.

It's almost midnight. RF is running around downstairs and CJ is asleep upstairs. We went to bed at the same time, but I got up after he dozed off. I couldn't sleep, so I got back up and came downstairs.

I am mostly listening to Mercedes Sosa singing "Todo Cambia" over and over. One year ago, I was heartbroken and in Chile. It was nice seeing my family, but I wish the circumstances had been different. I was, however, fine—bad enough that thinking of how I felt makes me shiver still, but well enough that I'm here a year later and that I can laugh it off.

I finished my Japanese classes. I did well, and yet that does little or nothing to ease my anxiety about the upcoming quarter. I have excelled and failed miserably in school. This is my past.

It will probably be a long time until I see my family again. My dad liked sitting on his chair with a poncho on and reading the paper; my mom always got sleepy early and disoriented easily; my grandmother would never just sit down and stop doing things. This is my past.

CJ and I leave for Alaska on Friday. I am taking Chinese next quarter. This is my future.

We used to walk four km to church on Sundays. We lived in a small house in the middle of nowhere. In the summer, we'd pick blackberries and my mom would make jam. I liked sitting at the top of the small hill next to the house and watching the wind turn the fields into a sea of golden waves.

We lived in a nice house in a cul-de-sac. We had no furniture in the family room; later, we'd find a beat up leather recliner and take turns sitting on it when we watched TV.

We lived in a crammed hotel in downtown Buenos Aires for several months. I used to wait for everyone to fall asleep and then drag a chair to the terrace and sit there through the night watching the stars. I used to sleep in the morning.

We lived in a large apartment in a nice section of the city. I always think of it as “the five-bathroom-apartment.” A few blocks away, people built shacks of tin, cardboard and plastic by the train tracks. I used to lay naked on my bed on hot summer nights, window open and heavy wooden blinds drawn, listening to the passersby and hoping for rain.

This is my past.

RF is here downstairs. Maybe he can't sleep either. I used to love him, and we lived here together. This too is my past.

CJ is asleep upstairs. RF and I live here now, roommates.

I'm going upstairs. I'll try to open the door quietly and sneak in without waking CJ up, but I'll fail; he'll stir and smile, and I'll get in bed and he'll draw closer. We'll sleep with the window open.

This is, perhaps, my future.