since 2017, i’ve read this essay every june 12th, to mark every unfortunate anniversary of the pulse shooting in orlando. justin torres published it in the washington post the day after it happened, when i still had the image of a dance floor vibrating with cellphones in my mind—vibrating not with music but with call after call after call of people trying to reach their beloveds after hearing the news.
every year, i read it in silence, i read it out loud, i read it while crying, i read it angry. i read it, and i wish it was in spanish, and i read it and i know the translation, in any direction, wouldn’t suit because we can’t always be translated, anyway.
i read it after i say the names of the 49 lost at pulse, and i keep the people they loved and that loved them in mind while i do it. i say their names and i hold their memory, and it’s not enough, and it will never be enough, but i hope that they are dancing, inviolable, free.
