Embedded deep within our cells is both ourselves and everyone else. Going back ten generations we have nine thousand ancestors, and going back twenty-five we get thirty million. All of us shaped by all of us, and then other things as well.
Iremember the women;
the long line of women that existed before me,
that shaped and formed me.
Strong, stubborn, emotional women weathered by time,
sitting alone with their hands
on their laps, their wooden spoons and clutching the wheel of a car
obstinately set on course by determination.
I remember a woman;
The lime green fabric of hand stitched pantsuits
wrapping around a body that has now become a sphere.
I remember a man with a voice like warm molasses
crooning in the background as a bloated hand rolls pasteles
and serves arroz con dulce, sprays spray on bottle blonde hair and
a mouth that tells me we’re both naturally canas
ignoring the fact that I haven’t been cana since childhood and
ignoring the fact that she had canas, she wasn’t cana.
I remember the women;
I remember the sad women,
the fat women, the tired and ill women;
the housewives, the working galls,
the dead ones and the ones still alive;
the ones who alive are dead and the ones who dead,
have never been more alive.
I remember a woman;
once stubborn black hair that matched an equally
once stubborn face now softened by time and
a life of compliance.
I remember an outdated boudoir with pictures of
grandchildren that were no longer rosy-cheeked and
plump like apricots.
Thin lips curving and big melancholic eyes
Cold hands and stern words warming my socks in the morning
Avena, maicena, farina, galletas de casco and Ovaltine
I remember respect and disappointment.
I look at my family tree of women,
women I never knew and women I wish I hadn’t met;
I see it’s droopy branches and strong core.
I see the willow tree of oppressed women, of crazy women
who bring the branches down and
I see the strong women, the survivors and poets,
the scientists and mothers
whose roots keep me grounded and hold me up
so that my branches don’t hang too low to the ground.
I remember a woman;
cold soft hands and equally warm soft heart
Afternoons spent sitting on a stool; your
hair dryer and my scalp screaming
Socks with toes, rad sunglasses and
the image of your short hair and olive pantsuit
the white car that in the future would be mine
“Your mom looks like Matrix”;
my mom is matrix.
Contagious melancholy and loneliness. Hereditary
Heart and soul stretched across the room
sad eyes meeting sad eyes and
across the room we hug without touching
And we stand there, without touching, forever embracing and
understanding our melancholic sadness that is one and
the same.
I remember
rice drying out like skin
a phone that will not ring
and a heartbeat from within.
Lista de imágenes:
1. Miguel Ángel Acosta Quiroga, "Eyes", 2015.
2. Miguel Ángel Acosta Quiroga, Collage Sin Título, 2013-14.
3. Ladydilema, "Que lluevan corazones", 2014.
