I know
I was harder on Yahaira
than I should have been.
But she shows up
after I’ve lived a whole life
& wants to pretend
we have so much in common?
She can’t possibly have known
anyone, or any situation, like El Cero.
She has no idea what it means
to completely abandon your dreams.
She cannot.
Because it seems
what everyone has known but me
is that I won’t be a doctor.
I won’t ever be anything more
than a girl from a small barrio
who helps her aunt with herbs.
& that might be the whole of my life.
& that will have to be enough.
Isn’t that what makes a dream a dream?
You wake up eventually.
But that girl, that girl gets to keep
living in the clouds.
When Mami pulls up to the house
driving a tiny Prius, the first thing I notice
is how hard her hands are clutching
the steering wheel.
I did not even know Mami had a license,
much less that she would use it.
I try not to flinch & grab Camino
although I’m nervous.
Mami gets out of the car with only a purse,
but I see a suitcase in the back—
she rushes out the car, leaving
the driver’s door open.
She runs to me,
pulls me into a tight tight hug.
& I know I scared her.
I wish I could tell her that I scared myself.
Beside me, Camino is unmoving,
as if made of marble.
My mother steps back from me &
runs hands down her jeans.
She kisses Camino’s aunt hello,
& I realized then, they would have met before.
Ma was Camino’s mother’s friend;
she’s probably even been to this house.
Theirs is an awkward greeting. & then she takes
a long hard look at Camino. & I can see in her eyes
that she sees how much we look alike;
this girl who could have sprung from her body,
how much we look like Papi,
both of us looking like we could have sprung from his.
She takes a deep breath. So do I.
I do not know how Mami will greet Camino.
I do not know what she is feeling in this moment.
I want to make the moment easy but don’t know how.
Mami takes the decision from me.
She leans in & kisses the air near Camino’s cheek:
“It’s nice to meet you, Camino.
I know you don’t know me, & it’s small consolation,
but your father loved you very much.”
Mami & Tía Solana sit inside the little house.
Camino & I rock in the chairs on the tiny porch.
It’s strange to be outside but still be barred in.
The wicker rocking chair bites into my thighs.
The stars overhead are scattered rhinestones
glued onto the night’s deep, dark fabric.
Camino passes me a cigar she’s been smoking.
I take a small puff & immediately start coughing.
She laughs & roughly rubs circles on my back.
That thing does not taste as good as it smells.
“Just breathe, Yaya. It’ll ease up.”
& from somewhere I didn’t know existed,
the phrase spells itself in smoke, in Papi’s voice.
Just breathe, negra, just breathe.
Pain yawns open inside my chest,
a wail pulls up from my mouth.
The sob barreling past my lips,
& pulling an army of tears with it. I can’t stop.
My body heaves in the rocking chair.
& Camino rubs my back in small, small circles.
“Just breathe, Yaya. Así.”
& through the screen of my tears
I see her own eyes are full, ready to cry,
but maybe I’m just imagining it.
I have never been an older sister to anyone.
I didn’t even grow up with one of the strays.
The chickens we killed were for food & ceremonies,
& I didn’t name or coddle even one of them.
So it is a strange feeling that’s being tattooed on my heart.
This need to comfort my crying, sad sister.
What do I know about providing comfort?
Of making myself a place of solace?
& yet it seems I know a lot because Yaya
folds herself into my arms & wets my blouse
with her sniffles, & I don’t even want to smack her
across the back of her head for ruining one of my good shirts.
Fifty-Three Days After
Camino & I walk a long ways to a river the next day.
& I wonder at how our father split himself & his love
& implanted us each with something of him
because the girl swims like a dolphin while I plop
around in the water, holding on to big rocks & kicking my feet.
& I feel competitive for a second, want to tell Camino
I would dust her on the chessboard if she played.
But I know this is petty. Swimming seems like therapy
to Camino. Her shoulders drop; her skin glows.
It is the closest to happy I’ve seen her since getting here.
On the other hand, chess has never been stress relief for me;
chess is the definition of stress itself. My mind wrestling
with every possibility & outcome, my thumb war with the pieces
trying to decide where they should land does not seem half as smooth
as Camino’s backstroke. I push onto my back & float
downstream. It is hard to remind myself I am not playing
against my sister. We are on the same team, I tell myself.
Even if I don’t actually believe that.
Fifty-Four Days After
The ceremony we had for Papi in New York
is nothing compared to what is planned in DR.
Tía & Camino arrange an entire party.
Mami looks on disapprovingly
as a band of men in white show up with drums
& tambourines, & it’s a good thing the grave site
isn’t too far from the church because dozens
& dozens of people show up, until we’re a blur,
a smudge of people dressed like ash
advancing down the street.
I borrowed a light-colored dress from Camino,
& we walk down the street arm in arm.
People sing songs I don’t know.
I think Papi would have loved us making such a fuss.
at the grave site
the casket is lowered
the earth again
welcoming
a song home
Mami heaves
as if she will jump in
the caoba trees
bow low
the wood gleams
words intoned
I lick sweat off my lip
Tía rocks
back & forth
I cannot hold her
my sister
grasps my hand
I feel her squeeze
& do not let go
hold tight
the ground
ruptured
my father’s
body
fills the hole
dirt is thrown
on the casket
filled up
& made whole
again
but not the same
Tía Solana begins the novena, the nine days of prayer,
im
mediately after the body is lowered into the ground.
Mami sits in a corner of the house. Not praying. Not moving.
Tears steadily fall down her cheeks
but not a single sob pushes forth from her mouth.
I touch her shoulder once, but she is holding vigil.
I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for her
to be here. All the painful memories she must have,
all the ones she will have after today. I try not to feel
guilt for having made her face this. But it still twists
me up to see how hard it is for her to look at this house,
to speak to these neighbors, to imagine this life my father had.
People come from all over to feast on the food
we spent yesterday cooking; to pull rosary beads
through their fingers & usher my father’s spirit
into heaven. & I wonder where his spirit
has been this whole time if only now is when
we are all officially praying for him?
Has he been here? Has he been here this whole time?
Has he watched us wrestle with the gift & curse he left behind?
After the novena,
all the neighbors
fill plates of food.
Everyone but Yahaira’s
mami eats. She
sits by the window
staring at absolutely
nothing. Even Vira
Lata is chewing a bone
out back. I walk over
to her, but stop before I speak.
I know I am hovering.
I am so unsure of myself
around this woman.
Who probably wishes
I had never been born.
As if she hears my thought,
she turns & pins me with her gaze.
“I noticed you were rubbing
a hand on your chest,
& Yahaira told me you’ve lost weight,” I say.
Her eyes fly to her daughter,
who is listening to old Juanita
tell one of her elaborate stories.
I force myself to rush on.
I don’t want to seem like
I’m sucking up to her.
It’s just so clear she’s in pain.
It hurts me to watch it. It
reminds me of my own.
“It’s just, all studies show
these are signs of high stress.
The aches. The loss of appetite.
Anyway, I fixed you a plate.
You should try & sleep tonight.
& remind yourself to take deep breaths.”
I wait. I know my tone
is a presumptuous one
she will berate me for.
Instead, she reaches out
& takes the plate I offer.
A soft smile tugs at her lips.
“He always did say
you would make a
wonderful doctor.
He had grand plans that you’d
attend Columbia. He said once
you were in the States, he wanted you close.
We live right by the school,
you know?” & I don’t know
who is more surprised,
me at the future my
father imagined without my knowing,
or her, at the disclosure.
I nod & walk away
before either one of us
says more. It seems
we’ve arrived
at peaceful ground,
& I want her to have
this memory
when it is all
said & done.
You should stop smoking those cigars.
Where did you get it anyway?
Tía uses them
in her ceremonies
& always has some stashed in the house.
Ceremonies?
What ceremonies?
Oh, girl, you got a lot to learn
about this side of the family.
Did you ever wonder about Papi’s beads?
He didn’t wear jewelry
except his ring.
It was like he was two
completely different men.
It’s like he split himself in half.
It’s like he bridged himself
across the Atlantic.
Never fully here nor there.
One toe in each country.
Ni aquí ni allá.
By the time the vecinos leave,
it is after eleven.
Mami goes to wash up, mumbling
about sleeping in a house her husband
once shared with another woman.
She wanted to stay in a hotel, but I refused to leave.
& she refused to leave me.
Camino & I are on the patio,
sitting in the rocking chairs just as Camino comments
that storm clouds are gathering.
It is then that Tía Solana comes over
& gives Camino a long, long hug.
“Lo siento that this
is how you spent your birthday.”
I feel lightning-struck dumb.
“Today is your birthday?
Why would you plan a burial today?”
Camino shrugs
& leans into Tía’s petting hand.
I can’t believe I’m empty-handed
for my sister’s birthday.
I go into the bedroom Camino is sharing with me
& rummage through my suitcase.
I have a pack of gum, some hair
product she might like, my travel documents,
Papi’s papers that Camino might want one day,
but nothing I can gift.
At midnight it will be the end of my birthday
& the day that Papi is put into the ground.
Yahaira’s eyes are swollen from crying
& I can tell she is worried
that our relationship will be another thing
we need to mourn & bury.
Sometimes, I look at her & it hits me
that she is the only person who can understand what I feel,
but she is also at the root of the hurt I’m feeling.
Her mother barely looked at me the whole day,
& I know I’ll have to go through with my plan.
I am seventeen today.
Yahaira tells me she is going to sleep.
Her mother & Tia have already retired
to the room they are sharing.
Her mother looked bewildered all day,
like a gallo who slept through the morning.
But before she goes to bed she reminds Yahaira
she bought plane tickets for them to depart in three days.
I think about the leaving: how my sister was left money.
How my father’s wife was left with a valid marriage certificate.
& in a few days’ time,
how they will both try to leave me.
It is a tiring thing to have to continue forgiving a father
who is no longer here.
I go inside. I have a feeling Camino wants to be alone.
In the living room I stop still at the altar.
Mami & I have been ignoring the altar in the corner.
I don’t know much about Saints or ancestors, only the rumors
of sacrificing chickens & how it all relates to voodoo.
I don’t even know if that’s what this is.
Camino called it something else,
& says the prayers & sacrifices
are important to having a relationship with the Saints,
having a relationship with those who sweep the way,
nudge open the doors for us to walk forward,
for us to walk through.
Camino or Tía has placed a small offering of rum &
coconut chunks, roasted corn on a small plate.
I can’t imagine my father kneeling
>
or praying at the foot of this altar. & yet,
I think about the silver coin he always carried in his pocket
& how its twin sits on the altar here.
I think about how he would always say something
about San Anthony, & isn’t that the statue by the door?
My father hid this part of himself tight inside his pockets,
but it still slipped through the stitching I just never paid attention.
I carefully pick up the frame with his picture, lift the candle.
Mami has decided we will return home in three days.
Taped to the back of Papi’s frame is an envelope of money.
I wonder if this is the cash I sent last week. Is this what Camino
is to survive off of?
In the bedroom we are sharing,
moonlight peeks through the gathering storm clouds,
& for a second its light glows on Yahaira’s dark face.
I look at how beautiful she is, my almost twin.
I feel like a fish Tía buys from el mercado: gutted.
My spine pulled out from my back.
When I am sure Yahaira is snoring softly,
I reach into her duffel bag. Searching.
But before I find what I want,
there, at the bottom, a marriage certificate.
One with my mother’s name on it. Dated
after both Yahaira & I were born.
Her family was always first.
The real one that I merely interrupted.
I want to crumple to the floor. I want to crumple the page.
Instead, I rip it up.
All the stupid things my father did but never said.
All these secrets & mysteries he kept.
All these papers, papers, papers.
Maybe I can fold these jagged scraps
into a yola that will sail me across the Atlantic.
Maybe I can string these dozens of words into a rope
I can use to zip-line to the States. I can’t pay tuition,
or light bills, or El Cero with an old man’s regrets.
There goes the last thing I had of him.
I grab what I originally wanted & leave.
I wake up. I am alone. & although nothing
has shifted in the night, something feels off.
Outside, the patter of rain lands against wet earth
& I want to let it lull me to sleep but I get up.
I can’t shake the feeling of wrongness. On the floor,
half buried beneath the bed, is the ripped-up certificate
of marriage I brought with me.
I thought Camino might have wanted it.
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