Yani Canetti
   
I Am
I Write
I Have

I Think
I Say
The Say
I Do
I Confess
I Share
You Share
       
  My Family
My Sons
My Friends
My Teachers
My Editors
My Country
My Family

I love my friends. I take care of them like a new poem. I love them for as far as the wind may carry me; I let myself be loved by all of them, one by one or all at once.

My friends escaped one day and now they live in Canada, Spain, Mexico, France, Sweden, Russian, and even in Afghanistan. Very few of them stayed in Cuba, but I still imagine them all together, in a clandestine meeting, drinking tea in the woods of Massachusetts, or each one solving the world’s problems their way.

My friends buy my books even though they have the ones I gave them, dedicated in complicity. They’ll push and prod me to publish another novel, knowing that I always have one hidden away in a drawer somewhere.

My friends know that I’m like a work of fiction; an imaginary version of myself, and that the reality of what I feel and desire is raw and tangible in what I write.

My friends don’t judge me when I mess up. They don’t rub it in my face if I don’t answer a message or a phone call. They don’t manipulate me to get something from me either.

My friends love each other. They love my children, they read my books, they tell me almost everything, and they make me laugh.

My friends can contradict me (and a lot) without hurting my feelings, and it even looks like they approve of what I do.

My friends take care of me and they know that I take care of them.

 
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