In the mornings, you don’t want
to go to school. Your crying sounds
pierce my heart like a sword—I own
no armor and you are no radio either,
whose volume I can control the way I could
muffle my own sobs in kindergarten for weeks.
My mother should not know.
You beg me to let you stay home; your stomach
tightens and thunders as in a storm, and I am
suddenly four years old, lying in my Málaga bed,
my pillow under my tummy, telling my aunt
she cannot take me to school because I’m sick.
Last night, I dreamed that I had to go back to college
in Granada and leave you behind. One weekend, you
came to visit, and told me that silence had replaced
the humming of my voice. No more laughing
at Mami’s goofy jokes. We hugged, and you clasped
your arms around my waist like the brackets clasping
my cellphone when driving so that it doesn’t fall
and break. I woke up, thrust myself back to the present.
You are almost twelve and I am forty-eight. Age
does not matter when darkness opens its monstrous
mouth and threatens to eat you alive. You cannot eat
your breakfast. No food I can prepare will calm
your raging hunger for someone to rescue you
from the jaws of darkness. I cannot be
your rescuer, though. You must face the beast,
tame it on your own until you can
scratch light from underneath and can
see that I am here—I’ll always be.
Now I have to leave for work. My breakfast’s piece
of toast lies on the kitchen counter, its sugar
crusting over the melted butter.