Mis Marcadores Moviles -

And yet, her hand was trembling.

She didn’t remember putting it there. In the image, she was laughing, her hair shorter, her eyes wider. Next to her stood a man with a crooked smile and a guitar case slung over his shoulder. On the back, in smudged ink: Sofía + Mateo. Granada. Puente de los Suspiros. Otoño. mis marcadores moviles

But there was one thing Sofía collected everywhere she went: bookmarks. And yet, her hand was trembling

Not the flat, tasseled kind you buy in a gift shop. Sofía’s bookmarks were objects . A dried maple leaf from a park in Boston. A torn metro ticket from Mexico City. A beer coaster from a bar in Seville where a boy with green eyes had taught her the difference between te quiero and te amo . A strip of washi tape from a Kyoto stationery store. A feather from a pigeon in Paris that had landed on her shoulder as she read L’Étranger . Next to her stood a man with a

She called them mis marcadores móviles —my mobile bookmarks.

She checked the date on her phone. October 12th. The leaves were falling right now.

Sofía had never been good at staying still. As a child, her grandmother would say she had hormigas en los pies —ants in her feet. Now, at twenty-eight, she had ants in her entire life.