Sol y Sola

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Sol y Sola

Santiago & Valparaiso, Chile 

 

 

I meet the friend of a friend in Santiago. 

The woman I do know explains in Spanish 

to the one I don’t: She’s traveling alone.

With my limited bit of the language, 

I catch this. The she is me. 

The friend looks at me, eyes wide: ¿Sola?

I catch this like a stone. 

 

I’ve traveled across many continents alone. 

Going solo is my go-to. 

But in this gendered language, 

the feminine alone sounds final—

a label I didn’t know I wore.

I smile and nod, Sola.

 

Two days later, my friend flies away,

and I’m truly alone. A dense, urban haze 

smothers the sun, el sol.

 

Sol, solo—do they share a story?

I pull my coat close and look at the 

white sky. I take a bus to the sea, 

but the sun hides behind clouds. 

 

I step into a small restaurant.

¿Sola? asks the waiter.

I smile and nod, Sola.

He leads me to a blue table by the window. 

I sit in the light of two candles 

and sip wine until one burns out 

and the other is sola. 

 

If the word for candle in Spanish is feminine.

If I can remember the word for together.

If there is clarity in “alone.” 

If I bring my own light with me.

If I will dream of sun.

 

Next morning, I wake before the birds. 

When dawn stretches

up the hill, the day expands with light.

The sol rises solo,

brightening every building,

every person walking by,

every dog barking. 

I smile and nod. 

I remember the word 

for together.