The End of My Days of Sainthood

It’s summer, which means more time for reading and more time for writing. This week I came across The End of My Days of Sainthood by Lizz Huerta in Duende.

I’ve been thinking about limerence lately, and how twee it usually goes down on the page. I think it’s mostly chemical, so it’s like describing a dream or an acid trip: the immediacy and transformative properties just do not translate.

Huerta’s story, though, upends the personal by grounding it in history and pulling the narrator’s story parallel to those stories of the creators of the civilization that in turn created her.

In a footnote, Huerta indicates that she wrote this piece long ago, and only pulled it out recently to rework it and send it out. The time in the piece is prismatic: more than a memory and less than an account of suffering. Somewhere in between, I felt limerence:


“At the head of the plaza a Cathedral towered, built with the stones of a destroyed civilization. We ate the last mangos of summer in silence, knowing our roles. We were young enough that the games were still fun.”

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