Aristotle and Dante Dive Into the Waters of the World

“Aristotle Mendoza was not born to wear glasses.”

“Apparently, Aristotle Mendoza’s eyes do not agree.”

I know I don’t know much about love—but what I know about love, my mother and Dante taught me.”

And I was starting to discover that change didn’t just happen—I had to make it happen

If we’re lucky. If we’re very lucky, the universe will send us the people we need to survive.

I remembered Dante on his bed, and me sitting on his big chair as he read the definition for that word from his well-worn dictionary: Calm, peaceful, untroubled, tranquil. “We’re done for, Ari,” he’d said. “Neither one of us are any of those things.”

Poems do not belong on a painting. And I do not belong in this world

I always thought I was sort of invisible to them. But it was the other way around. It was they who were invisible to me.

Because I wasn’t capable of seeing them.

I think I’ve been like this kitten, born with its eyes closed, walking around meowing because I couldn’t see where I was going.

But, Dante, guess what? The kitten has fucking opened his eyes. I can see, Dante, I can see.

I didn’t used to like who I was.

And now I just don’t know who I am. Well, I do know who I am. But mostly I’m becoming someone I don’t know. I don’t know who I’m going to become.

But I’m better, Dante. I’m a better person—though that may not be saying much.

My mother had said that they were just people, she and my father. And she was right. Maybe that was a sign that I was starting to grow up, the knowledge that my parents were people and that they felt the same things that I felt—only they’d been feeling those things for a helluva lot longer than I had, and had learned what to do about those feelings.

You get used to not talking. You get used to the silence. It’s hard, you know, to break a silence that becomes a part of how you see yourself. Silence becomes a way of living.