she asked ‘you are in love,
what does love look like’
to which i replied
‘like everything i’ve ever lost
​come back to me.”

by Nayyirah Waheed

/souˈdädə/ /saʊˈdɑdə/
​A deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never be had again. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places, or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, and well-being, which now trigger the senses and make one experience the pain of separation from those joyous sensations...​

Definition from Wikipedia

Remembering with a Grateful Heart
How it feels to fall in love.
​The smell of English distilled turpentine and the 2nd floor European galleries at the Art Institute.
Gazing at Zurbaran’s Crucifixion of Christ between classes.
How the snow falls during a blizzard at night and hits my windshield.
Apollo playing in the snow.
The way the spring sun feels on my face.
How I perceive the sun with my eyes closed—all of its hues, like watercolors bleeding and blending.
The way children talk and the things they say when they think no one is listening.
The way they explore.
Watching them make art.
Lucid dreams of those who have passed.
Lucid dreams because they make me wonder.
The smell of diesel.
The sound of the ocean.
Westward Beach in Malibu.
How Yuki prepared sushi—I felt like I was eating art.
A cloudless blue sky.
How the sunshine glistening on the ocean looks like a pool of mercury.
The wet sand under my feet.
The smell of the ocean.
The view of the ocean coming off the California Incline onto PCH with Malibu in the distance.
Crashing waves.
The wind rustling through the leaves and the tall grass in the summer.
Watching my father engrave—watching him work.
Listening to my father’s stories.
The flat farmland.
The smell of clover.
The fireflies in the corn fields in July.
The smell of the fields after a summer rain.
The way David’s neck smelled when I caressed it with my lips.
The way his earlobes felt when I rubbed them between my thumb and index finger.
The kisses he gave me everyday, and often throughout the day.
That he never held back a single "I love you".
The way he could feel me looking at him and how he would turn in my direction and smile at me.
How he held my hand when we walked.
That he made me feel safe.
His smile. His smile. His smile
How happy he looked when he walked with Deets and how much he loved that dog.
That he adored me.
How he encouraged and facilitated my art making.
That he happily converted the entire upper level of our home into my studio.
How proud he was of me at my first solo exhibit.
The cute little poems he wrote to me when we first got married.
That he made my morning coffee and even stirred it for me.
How his very large curly hair bounced from side to side as we all danced to Spencer Davis Group's “Gimme Some Loving” at the Civic Auditorium one summer when we were teenagers.
The first time that we kissed on the steps of Brent Wadley’s basement—we were teenagers.
That he remembered that kiss just as I remembered it.
When he took me to Beaurivage for my birthday—everything was so thoughtfully planned.
The look of his arms, hands, and wrists—they were beautiful.
The way he looked on Christmas Eve, 1983—his black leather pants and red Malibu sweatshirt.
A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night because he played that record the night we re-met Christmas Eve 1983.
The way his mother’s eyes looked when she recounted how I looked when she told me that David would be visiting that Christmas.
Christmas and New Year’s Days when David and I went to the movie theater.
That he said, "I don't want to die because I love you so much and you will miss me too much. I've had a good life—I just want more."
That he was loved by so many and that they were so willing to help me when he passed away.
Lorrie's empathetic and non judgmental spirit.
That she accompanied me to Playa del Carmen after David passed because she didn’t want me to go alone.
That she’s easy to travel with.
Our trip to Chichen Itzá and Coba.
My bike transport down the hill.
Bob’s benevolence.
That he checks in on me from time to time and that he does this for David.
Debra’s laughter.
Her mischievous spirit and generosity.
The care she takes in preparing the morning coffee.
Virginia’s kind heart.
Her friendship...
That she crossed half the country in the middle of winter to support me in the most difficult decision of my life.
That she listened and never judged and she still listens and doesn’t judge.
Jamie’s peace and love of self.
How she cares for plants.
The parties she used to have at her apartment when we worked together—how much fun we had.
Nell’s quick wit and intellect.
The beautiful rack of lamb she prepared one Easter.
The day Toby and I arrived at her home at the break of dawn in our pajamas to celebrate her birthday—we sang Happy Birthday and threw rose petals at her.
The way Toby squeezed every last bit out of life.
Bike rides with him.
Toby dancing to Barry White’s “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything.
Dancing with him for hours and hours at the Bistro in Chicago.
My brother, Javier's pure goodness.
Walking.
Watching a movie in a theater.
Paramount Theater popcorn.
Going there on Sundays when we were children.
The smell of terra cotta vessels when they contain water.
The corridors with wrought iron railings in my grandmother’s courtyard at the house where she lived before we left Mexico.
Playing in that courtyard—bouncing the sunlight off mirrors.
The old buildings in the “Zócalo” in Mexico City.
The smell of street vendor tacos and chorizo.
The birds singing in my grandmother’s courtyard—the house where she lived when we visited after moving to the US.
E’s lips and the way they felt as I followed their shape with my thumb.
The way he sighed when I kissed his eyelids and face.
Holding his face in my hands.
The way I felt, in my youth when I finally heard his voice after days of not hearing it.
That a few days after finally speaking to him years after asking him not to ever contact me, he called to tell me that he was “coming home”.
The hug that he gave me when we parted after being reunited in 2017—I felt alive again, understood, loved, comforted, and protected.
That he came back when I said that I wanted to see him again.
How he kissed me and gently held me in his arms.
That he wanted me to sit on his lap.
That he would often request, “Tell me you love me.”
The way he whispered in my ear, “I love you I love you I love you.”
The way he’d tell me, “Yo te amo un montón.”
When he would respond to my “I love you.” with, “I love you more."—the way he said “more”.
That he asked me not to walk in the woods alone.
More than once, he told me, "There is nothing you could ever say or do to make me stop loving you".
That I was able to speak to him the very night before he passed away.
And that as sick as he was that night, he thought to tell me that he didn’t want me to drive at night and that he would be "Coming home soon."
His smiling eyes.
The poems he wrote for me and the songs he sang to me.

That I loved so profoundly twice in my life and that those two times, I felt loved in return—I know I was loved in return.

The way reading all of this again has made me smile.

Cúrate mijita, con la luz del sol y los rayos de la luna.
Con el sonido del río y la cascada.
Con el vaivén del mar y el aleteo de las aves.                               
Cúrate mijita, con las hojas de la menta y la hierbabuena, con el neem y el eucalipto.                   
Endúlzate con lavanda, romero y manzanilla. 
Abrázate con el grano de cacao y un toque de canela. 
Ponle amor al té en lugar de azúcar y tómalo mirando las estrellas.              
Cúrate mijita, con los besos que te da el viento y los abrazos de la lluvia.                     
Hazte fuerte con los pies descalzos en la tierra y con todo lo que de ella nace.                                    
Vuélvete cada día más lista haciendo caso a tu intuición, mirando el mundo con el ojito de tu frente.         
Salta, baila, canta, para que vivas más feliz.                      
Cúrate mijita, con amor bonito, y recuerda siempre: 
¡Tú eres la medicina... !

Heal yourself daughter, with the light of the sun and the rays of the moon,
With the sound of the river and the waterfall.
With the swaying of the sea and the fluttering of birds.
Heal yourself daughter, with the mint leaves and peppermint, with neem and eucalyptus.
Sweeten yourself with lavender, rosemary, and chamomile.
Hug yourself with the cocoa bean and a touch of cinnamon.
Put love in tea instead of sugar and drink it looking at the stars.
Heal yourself daughter, with kisses that the wind gives you and hugs from the rain.
Make yourself strong with your bare feet on the earth and everything that comes from it.
Become smarter every day, paying attention to your intuition, looking at the world with the eye of your forehead.
Jump, dance, sing, so that you live happier.
Heal yourself daughter, with beautiful love and always remember:
You are the medicine...!

I think of you again with clear love...
Did we not--did you not flame, and I catch fire?
Was not the love that we found, worth the tempest that it brewed?
​I feel it was.
​I know it was.

Missing You
In the absence of your presence,
faith and trust secures your throne
love not space is of the essence
you are here–though you are gone.
Nay you say.
Then so be it–but give a smile to expose your jest.
I pray that you will one day see it
that which to me is manifest--

Untitled
This morning for want of you, I pined and ached--
this afternoon, I endured the plight of the morning.
Tonight, should there not be the slightest allusion to me in your dreams,
tomorrow shall be as empty as today,
when I neither see, nor hear from you, Pilar.

Written in the mid to late 70s.