Ya Se Fue Lo Malo

Alyssa Ramon

Popo never called it healing, he called it staring over. When I was little, he’d call me close with a quiet “ Ven, mija,” his voice carrying that calm certainty that made the world slow down. The air would always smell like sage and soap, like something freshly forgiven. His hands, worn from years of work, smelled faintly of cedar and tobacco, and when he held the egg, it was like holding the world in something so fragile it demanded reverence. With slow, deliberate movements, he’d begin the limpieza, circling the egg over my head, my chest, my heart, his voice a low hum of words that belonged to something older than both of us. I didn’t always understand what he said, but I felt it. When he cracked the egg into the glass, I’d watch the shapes swirl in the water. Threads of light and cloud shifting like stories finding their place. Popo would nod and smile, “Ya se fue lo malo.” The bad is gone.

But I think now it was never about what was left. It was about what stayed. About how his steady hands showed me that resilience doesn’t roar, it breathes. His ritual wasn’t superstition; it was love made visible, a lesson in resilience disguised as simplicity. Through him, I learned that healing isn’t about forgetting, it’s about transforming the way water catches light, the way old pain becomes strength. Even now, when I feel the weight of the world press down. I think of his steady hands, his voice reminding me to begin again. Popo didn’t just cleanse the soul; he taught me how to carry my own light forward, how to start over and still shine.