Scarlet Leaf Review, no.1, 2019, p. 31.
It’s hard to know when goodbye means later or no more.
I.
How would you know that when Dan left in his handed-down Volvo
and drove back to Rotterdam, his blank-as-my-life-without-you CD
would be the only trace of his existence? One summer, he is the man
of your dreams, and the next one, he belongs to your dreams’ archives.
Years later, your friend mentions in passing that he’s married
and has twins, and you bury his empty disc
in the “no-more” compartment of your heart.
II.
Who would have thought that the usual kiss
and your “love you, Hon! I’ll see you this evening” would be the last?
After all, your son was just twelve, the same number of years
you spent building cotton pathways around his steps to soften
his falls. An angry teenage girl speeding and texting
in a school zone running into him on his way home
never passed your mind, and who would blame you?
III.
Who can assure you that your aging parents will still be around
next time you see them, Mom’s arms weaker, but no less warm
when she hugs you, Dad’s eyes wearier, but no less deep
when he looks at yours? When you leave them, tears blurring
your path to a foreign country you now call your home,
you never think your brother will call you two months later
breaking the news your dad had a stroke and is no more.
IV.
Yet, once in a while, you see the final goodbye peeking
behind doors you wanted closed. Like when your ninety-year-old great-aunt,
the one who dressed you and took you to daycare every morning,
the one who gave you chocolate when mom was not looking,
the one who told you stories of nuns imprisoned, centuries-old churches
burnt to the ground during the Spanish Civil War,
and of a grandpa you never knew always smiling and showing love,
when she begins to forget your name, her own, and then the words she used so well
to comfort you, when her eyes beg you to let her sleep, to let her go,
then, you know goodbye means no more, but wish you didn’t know.
Scarlet Leaf Review, no. 1, 2019, p. 32.
A Seven-Year-Old Wonders . . .
Mami, is abuelo in heaven with Diosito? Sure he is. El abuelo era un santo. Does he see you from there? He sees us all and prays for us. Did he take his glasses with him? The round little ones he’s wearing in the picture next to abuela’s? In heaven, he doesn’t need glasses. You mean Diosito is an eye doctor? Diosito is more than a doctor. He’s todo-poderoso. You mean like Superman? He’s more poderoso than Superman. So, if abuelo can see you, is he sad when you cry and stop talking to papi? Uh…. I guess he is. I don’t know, mi niña.
Mami, is heaven a bit city above the clouds? I don’t think so. So, what does heaven look like? I don’t know. Nobody knows. So why do people look up to the sky when they talk about heaven? I guess it’s invisible, like air, like Diosito. And that is why abuelo doesn’t need glasses to see you, because he’s invisible? In heaven, people are perfect. There’s no need for glasses, doctors, or pain. So he doesn’t feel sad when you cry and stop talking to papi? Uh…. I guess he does, but in a different way. I don’t know, mi niña.
Mami, will you go to heaven when you die? I hope so. I don’t know. Why don’t you know? Maybe I’m not good enough. Is that why you cry and stop talking to papi? No! Well…. Maybe. I don’t know, mi niña. So mami, if you go to heaven – and I want you to go – will I find you when I die? Uh…. I don’t know. I hope so. There is nothing to worry about, cielo. We will all be with Diosito. But why can’t I be with you, too? I’ll feel lost. I’ll be scared…, and how will I know if you stopped crying and being silent for days?