Monday, December 3, 2012

Baila con migo. Ven.

My friend posted this. Listen.


When I was young I clearly remember my mother. She was a strong woman, stoic. Devoid of warms kisses and hugs. Today, quite the opposite. I distinctly remember the first time I saw her smoking. It was late at night, I couldn’t sleep because my family had recently moved into the government housing apartment. Think of a large box. With three rooms in them. Three empty large rooms. My room had a bed and a desk. Think. Pink: my least favorite color, with a bird plastered in the middle. You should have seen her smile when she pulled it out of the trunk. It was brand new, store bought. Her smile beamed, it hurt my face, so carefully with great effort pushed up a half circle on mine.

“ay ama, no deberias”

“no mija, te lo mereses, toma, ponlo en tu cama” 

and with a hug she gave me the bed comforter. She wanted me like it. With great difficulty she had bought it. My mattress had a simple bedsheet, and the blanket I used I can’t quite remember. I do remember the mattress. Horse riding cowboys, dozens of them were plastered on, the mattress. That’s what Texas must be like. I just remember the browns and yellows hues badly mixed in for colors. So I had to cover them so they wouldn’t run all over me. I remember that comforter was the warmest I”ve ever had. Now that’s an entire story for another time. The comforter.

The curtain, it wasn’t there yet. The large window was naked. I was scared to peer out of it at night. The moon would sometimes, conveniently sit there across from me, but some nights, many nights it was cold and dark. The only light that would come through the plastic was the artificial beam from a light post. It was cold and clammy. The only thing that kept me warm was the pink Tweety bird comforter. One day, out of sheer curiosity I decided to peek outside. I saw wafts of smoke come up as I looked. My mom was there outside, in who knows what hour of the night. Smoking. Looking out at the field of leveled grass. I once thought that field was our backyard. It wasn’t, but as child, it was nice to think that whoever owned that field, they let us have it, to freely roam around whenever we wanted.

Yet it was strange, for I never knew the smell of smoke growing up.

Today we got into an argument. Before I left, the smell was undeniable. The smell was dumbed at my feet. I messed up.


There’s an orange sitting right across me. It curves in the right places. It hugs you warmly. 

Sometimes my hands tremble uncontrollably. I’ve probably said this many times. Sometimes it scares me. It’s the caffeine I say. So I had to write something, anything, to stop the shaking, before anyone sees and asks. I hate questions. Don’t query. Leave me alone. My hands seem to shake uncontrollably. Maybe it’s my vision that amplifies that shaking but they need to move -  to do something. So I make them type. Like this. These words that fail to make sense are all the doing of my hands that wont stop tying. They. Won’t. Stop. Even though I tried long ago to silence them. To shush them. it doesn’t work. They refuse to rest; they refuse to leave the keyboard. Although I’ve, somewhat stopped them from grabbing the pen, the pencil, the utensil.  I’m quite cruel sometimes. No one knows, or perhaps everyone knows. Yet they refuse to stop, they want to marathon out of here. They want to melt words. They want me to move in and move out. They want me to pursue that which they’ve been waiting for, what I’ve been wanting. They somehow know more than I let on. They know me more than I admit to myself. These hands that are my grandmas hands: brown and wrinkly. I remember the first time they touched that grass, remember? They never felt more alive, until I again made them pull the weeds and the dive in naked palms first. They never felt more alive. The garden was left prim and a little bit ugly. A crew cut at best, but they never felt more alive.