Carlos Fentanes

Conversations with Virgin Mary

I arrived at Jorge’s house early in the morning, hoping we could run together — still trying to make a habit of that advice from Virgin Mary. I wore my brand-new outfit, following her words about dressing with the best you can afford: nothing fancy, but not George’s from Walmart either. Just decent, honest clothes and a comfortable pair of sneakers.

But Jorge wasn’t there. On the porch sat Virgo, the tuxedo cat. She meowed at me, then darted into the garden like a ghost. An envelope lay at the door, with my name written on it.

Hello,
Sorry I missed you. Virgin Mary told me about your visit, but I had to run to the hospital — nothing serious, just routine.
Here’s a letter I want you to ponder.
Let me know your thoughts.
Yours,
Jorge

It started to rain so, I decided to walk back home instead of running the trail by myself, and around the corner I met my neighbor. He waved at me, cheerful as always, wearing one of those Moncler jackets I’d been coveting online. I waved back, smiling, but something sour brewed inside me — envy, simple and old-fashioned.

At home, I popped a Nespresso capsule, brewed a double espresso, and opened the envelope. Inside was Mary’s letter.

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Friday, December 13th

Draw too near to your neighbor, and you shall know him by the smell of his fart — and it is no perfume; it stinks. Do not envy your neighbor. Keep your distance, lest familiarity turn reverence into disgust.

I’m here with you — guiding you, revealing the oldest secrets whispered before fire learned to burn — and yet you’re peeking through the neighbor’s window again, pretending to look at the stars.

You call it inspiration, but it’s envy. His new kitchen, his shiny golf clubs, his shoes. You keep trying to measure the infinite with your neighbor’s ruler.

Tell me, what do you prefer: the number five or the equal sign?

It’s not a trick question. Answer.

Nonsense, right? And yet you do the same when you compare yourself to someone else. Different paths. Different hungers. Different sins.

Comparing one soul to another is like weighing smoke against a sigh. Still, you stare at his car, his brighter lawn, his fatter garbage bag — as if salvation came wrapped in Amazon boxes and envy.

You shed skins every night and still wake up pretending you’re the same creature. Stop the comedy. If you must compare something, compare your steps: where you stood yesterday, where you stand now. Are you closer to your own promised land, or just spinning in circles, sniffing other people’s perfume?

Keep walking. You have your map and your route. You don’t need more.

This week I’m sending you a special messenger: your neighbor. Yes — wave hello, talk for a minute, then keep walking.

“Wait — how could she know? I was supposed to talk to him. ‘Wave hello, talk for a minute, then keep walking,’ she’d said. But I’d just waved and hurried past, already drowning in envy. I’d failed the task before I even knew it was a task. The messenger had arrived before the message. The timing was too perfect. Jorge, unwitting messenger, had delivered her prophecy before it happened.

I froze. What was I supposed to do? Post something about it on Instagram, maybe. I opened the app — but instead of writing, I started scrolling. That’s when I saw Devon Rodríguez interviewing Scarlett Johansson. The artist of Instagram, haloed by celebrity light. His reels are smooth, his draftsmanship mediocre. Yet there he was, at the red carpet, his voice echoing through the algorithm.

I closed the app; this place is full of farts that everyone pretends are perfume. Then I opened it again, watched the reel once more, as if hoping envy might reveal its secret formula.

The letter lay on my table, still open, each word staring back at me like an accusation. Keep walking, she’d said. But there I was — frozen mid-scroll, measuring the infinite with someone else’s ruler, sniffing digital perfumes and wondering if salvation ever came with a blue checkmark.