Abuelita

abuelita

My mother sent me four pictures of her mothers hands,  Hands smoothed down by almost a century of living.  She looks so much smaller than I can ever remember.  When did so much time pass?  I lived with closed eyes for so long and let years blend into one another.  Now I’m sleeping beside the clock with tears in my eyes,  Whispering to the hours like a lover that doesn’t want to stay,  ‘Please, just a little longer. That’s all I’m asking.’  Her hands look fragile, bruised but beautiful.  The skin looks soft and borrowed,  Like wearing your older brothers jacket that’s just a little too big.  She doesn’t know she’s magic.  She doesn’t know, but we do.  Her hands built the love th us at we take shelter below,  If you leave, what will we do when it rains?  Her hands.  They used to tie clumsy ponytails in my hair with tape and bread ties.  Her hands are the reason each time I smell cilantro,  I feel like I’m home.  They wrote broken English birthday cards to me for a quarter of a century.  I saved every one.  ‘Keisy, 10.00. No cigerate. Abuela loves you mucho mucho.’  Sometimes I bought cigarettes,  but it was the guiltiest 6 dollars I ever spent.  Her hands attached to the arms that held me as a little girl when i would run down the hall to sleep in her bed.  They were as comforting then as they were when 20 years went by and I was creating my own nightmares.  Her hands have held the phone to her ear each time I called for almost three decades.  She told me it would be okay no matter what I told her.  She loved me without condition,  Anything from heartbreak to heroin.  Nothing could change that.  My Abuela,  Constant as a northern star.  She said it would be okay and even if it didn’t seem like it at the time,  It became so.  It is.  How can she not know she’s magic?  I must remember her hands for all they’ve done.  They never built skyscrapers or painted a masterpiece,  But neither of those could compare to what they have created.  I wonder if she remembers what I felt like to touch my grandfather’s cheek for the first time.  God, so much time has passed without our permission.  I know it will not slow, no matter how desperate the crack in our voices sound.  It is such a miracle that your life and mine have happened together,  90 more years would never be enough.  I knew I would never be prepared, and I never will be.  I will never forget the beauty her hands created,  It lives inside of me each day.  Its been all around since before my memory.  There must be something wrong with the pictures, I guess.  She looks so tiny,  But I can’t ever remember her being an inch under ten feet tall.

baltimore

Baltimore,  again.  8 AM, sweating, shaking  on the verge of puking up  stomach acid.  the car is dead silent.  are we early?  are they late?  is this how its going to be   forever?  who knows.  who cares.  i’ve been watching time  pass and slip through  the cracks between my fingers.  it seems more apparent  than usual.  we are parked at a gas pump.  each time i make eye contact  its quickly broken.  i know what they are thinking.  ‘what a shame.’  ‘my morning could be worse.’  maybe they even feel   gratitude.  as they finish filling up,  i watch them reach for   their phones.  i wonder if they are calling  their daughters and sons.  on the surface,  just to check in.  but inwardly,   thankful their children  aren’t heroin addicts.  no one wants their baby to grow up  to be  a junkie.  i steal a glance at my other half  she’s ill  but she’s beautiful.  she’ll feel better soon enough.  a young handsome black man  starts over  and my heart  skips a beat.  we exchange currency   for oblivion.  we drive away to find  somewhere to hit.  it feels like   my first kiss.  i can’t remember what makes me happy anymore.  my happiness is   artificial  and fits nicely  in a syringe.  when i get on,  i can breathe again.   i melt into the passenger seat,  successful.  i watch her try to find a vein,  in and out of consciousness.  she’s millimeters away from getting well.  she’ll get there.  i let myself nod but  for a moment,   i wonder  what that young, handsome black man  wanted to be   when he grew up.  i guess it doesn’t matter.  everyone crosses paths at the bottom.

She was(nt) mine

Everything I write about my girl is non-descript Lacking humanity Other writers have given more depth to phantoms. When did it happen, my muse? I am entirely sure she is no longer mine Nonetheless Do I miss her or do I miss my version of the truth of her? There is no truth of her. Do I miss the chaos we created? I create enough on my own. I'm fooling myself to think we created anything at all in our grand social experiment I can be sure I loved her, whoever she was. I'm sure I would have loved her, had I ever met her. We were a calendar floating on the last days of the year I can't say that this is sadness I have only decided three things: a. it hurt b. it mattered and because of this c. I am not the same

the ghost you left behind

Someone else sleeps On your side of the bed. Everything got worse Before it go better. Is it better? I'm not as strong As I used to be. I don't like crying When I do I'm afraid it will never stop I died with you I am no longer Your "us" "We" "Our" My wife loves me She looked at me And said without saying There is not enough room For the three of us.

— via jitterati

claire

I've met a lot of girls who weren't kind to themselves or others for whatever reason, I never tried to diagnose them  But there was one girl I got lost in her methodical behavior with seemingly no way out the worst of it is that I didn't want one This girl claimed me the night she kissed me while my wife was getting ready for bed and I didn't resist, I didn't want to. I knew from the beginning that she took what she wanted no matter the circumstances were. It was thrilling to be what she wanted to take and I was powerless to her allure from that night on. She made it clear that she would see me when she could I didn't mind carrying on at her convenience. She kept me close but made sure to keep a distance at the same time. She was training me so to speak and what made me a willing student I can't explain all these years later. Something about her made me desperate but she made it clear she was not interested in being anyone's anything. She never acknowledged our pseudo relationship as an affair. She made it clear she could take or leave me but I waited by the phone anyway. I was enamored with someone who wanted to make sure I knew I was expendable if she chose so but she always threw a rope to draw me in when she decided I would be the entertainment she wanted and to keep me wrapped up in her little games. I remember feeling grateful for time she gave me like a willing hostage uninterested in freedom. She knew how to keep me walking in the direction she chose was best for her and I never protested. When I finally told her how I felt about her she told me I was too much for her to handle and not worth any risks she'd have to take being together. She had no emotion in her voice and was very matter of fact. I had a moment of clarity and knew that my use for her had come to an end. I realized I was just something to pass the time.  I allowed myself to be what she wanted and lost sight of who I was before. I wasn't angry, I wasn't sad, but I was impressed to come to the understanding that I had been the victim of a narcissist. I drove away with all the dignity I could muster and began to think of where to begin forgiving myself for what I allowed myself to become. I realized I'd have to remember who I was before her and start there. She took what she could but the farther I got from her the more I realized she didn't take what made me who I was. I never spoke to her again.  Her words would do nothing but serve a purpose that benefitted her in one way or another. I'll forgive her for being sick but I won't forget losing myself in the sickness. When I stopped trying to make sense of everything was when I healed.  Holding onto the secret is the penance I pay but I will shoulder the burden so I never forget the hijacking of my being.