Enrique's Writings

The evening was cold, one of those December nights when the air feels sharpened, almost metallic. David eased the car into the church parking lot, headlights sweeping across a cluster of choir members gathered outside. Their huddled shapes, shivering in the freezing dark, immediately unsettled him. Choir practice never started outdoors. He glanced at Lyanne beside him. She stared at the group as though she’d been expecting something to go wrong. Since her return from Central America, she carried a je ne sais quoi , that hadn’t existed before. Her once bright demeanor now flickered only occasionally. She gave him little to work with, no explanations, no details, just vague responses when he asked how she was doing. He didn’t push, didn’t dare. As he turned off the engine, his thoughts drifted back to the conversation that had changed everything, the night she told him she needed to volunteer in the earthquake zones. Back then, their relationship had come apart from the seams, threads pu...

          The first signs of the Christmas season had arrived. It was their very first Christmas in their adopted country. Canada was dressing itself in multicolored lights, shop windows glowing warmly, and familiar seasonal songs drifting through the cold air. For this small family of new Canadians, everything about the season felt tender, tentative, and new. The year coming to an end had been a year of firsts, first winter, first home, first language learned on the fly, first Christmas far from everything they once knew. After all, it was the year they had arrived in their adopted country. “A country made by immigrants, for immigrants,” the immigration officer had said as he welcomed them at the airport on that frigid January morning. Now, months later, those words felt a little distant, as if winter itself had stretched endlessly since that day. They were “newcomers.” That was the word people used when referring to them, whether they were within earshot or no...

 By the time Carlos Borromeo entered his office that morning, she was already there, waiting for him. She rose as he approached, and when they shook hands, her grip was firm, immediately commanding. “Lyanne Smith,” she said, introducing herself. She had long, reddish-blonde hair braided neatly down almost to her hips. Jerelyn’s gray-green eyes held both intelligence and defiance. She wore no makeup, just a long blue skirt and a traditional local white blouse embroidered at the neckline. Her impeccable Spanish caught him by surprise, clear, deliberate, touched with the faint lilt of an accent that could only be from Spain. For a brief moment, he was silent, caught between admiration and professional composure. Then, regaining his voice, he asked, “Welcome. How can I help you?” Lyanne gave a small, knowing smile, half amused, half challenged, and began to tell her story. She explained that she was a volunteer working with survivors of the earthquake, and that her team, arriving from ...