It's saturday morning. I'm standing in the kitchen opening a papaya melon for breakfast, reflecting the week. Gera's sister is gone for the weekend to prepare to sell at the flea market on Sunday: forecast 104 degrees. Humid. Throughout the week, she and I had conversations (in Spanish; unlike, Gera, she does not speak any English, whatsoever--I'm teaching her). Words that haulted our sharing of stories (words I could not translate): would ashes over. Words she taught me: amante (lover), I know "sancho" or "sancha" for this, cenizas. There were many others, but the communication was clear and coherent. The week passed ever so slow. We spoke extensively about our dead children.
Gera is sitting at the table preparing a sketch for an entertainment center he needs to build for a returning client. It will be a sinch, but he still underestimates the value of custom-made. I think. He walks past me in the kitchen, touches me firmly in a common place then takes a piece of papaya. We aren't talking very much this morning---it's like that whenever he is creating and I am a tad exhausted of speaking. In fact, today, we will each go to our separate little caves and surface around lunch time---chicken milanesa, salad, sopa, a glass of wine and a cold beer. He will disappear to his wood shop and I will finish reading a novel, knowing quite well I should be working on my own.
Favorite line from The Tenth Circle "The tears you shed over a child were not the same as any others. They burned your throat and your corneas. They left you blind."
It's May 2012 and nothing has changed since November.11. I am all smiles at my relationship and myself. My honey and I continue to amaze each other on a daily basis. We're still ever so 'in' with each other. I completed my MA in literature last May and I'm teaching four college English courses to really smart students. I am hopeful to enter a doctorate program soon. This way, I can run out.All is scary good.
upon hearing your voice life again expands like moon crest like pomegranates swell to the sun and you are patient because god calls
when he came for you this morning you were bent into the flower bed singing black hymns so he left you alone until this third afternoon but even then he found you elbow deep in jewel weed with a mouthful of figs from a nearby tree again he waited because each time seemed to him an inconvenience and a wrong moment
and it was your persistent humming that drove him up and back until he could get his timing perfect he waited another day or so until
your gardening tools rest into porch corners your paring knife shines deeply into a drawer your hair comb lies slanted in a shoebox your wedding band hides in the mattress your fishing rod stays stolen
the sound of your voice desires to sing or hum but this time is perfect he has covered you like lavender-colored silence but he has also added streaks of olive green and pink because this is what the other soul-folk has told him to do and he has become tired in the process and therefore begins to rush sonances of your body he finds you the least complex when you are not outdoors digging in that garden, humming hymns and thriving and for a moment he questions his own timing its perfection and everything goes accordingly until he finds you have buried fruit peels and wandering jew petals underneath your back this does not anger him but it tilts his agility to deliver you and in his own questioning and presence of smells that he cannot privilege all this over powers his choice all this reels his otherwise perfection into letting you go
when i see you sitting in the plush squares of limitless St. Augustine your eyes are lit like crystal warmed soil releases from each of your hands
how did i get to this point this point of knowing you for you are nearly a century old