my mother convincing me
to try the guayaba paste
on queso blanco
and the sweet sugar candy shock
as i bit into it.
my tongue tracing my lips
for hours afterwards,
as if on instinct,
trying to chase that same soft
sweetness,
like a history
barely remembered.
just after midnight,
my fingers stained red with sazón
i peeled, careful, at wrapping paper
eyes casting sidelong to
an empty chair.
the stillness afterwards—
just before
my great-tio raised an empty glass,
‘papi and mami would be so happy
to see all of us here,
together.
that’s what it’s about’
even young as i was,
i couldn’t help but wonder—
when i die,
will i leave behind
an echo of a family
the same way they did?
i am not made of what it takes to be
a matriarch, allmother,
i don’t have the same iron in my bones
that led them here
on a lost cause and a prayer.
no,
i don’t have much at all—
inherited or otherwise.
only memories
and my words
but my god,
do i have words.
