Lucía Yletzara González

After Jamie Anderson

Do you remember, when my scalp cracked under the weight of the dresser I had climbed, reaching for a pair of shorts? 

Mom, did you see yourself in Mexico? Reaching for a sun in the shape of a glowing fruit on your roof, before it all broke beneath you?

I remember. You said you had a tumor. You took a plane and a prayer to the best doctors you could find. And when you got there the doctors said it was gone, said it was a miracle.

My dad says it never went away. He tells me you were the type of woman laughter seldom hid from. Says you never took anything seriously, especially yourself. 

But the church he got married in burned to the ground, and the fire is not done taking. Mom, did you know this world only prepared me to lose you once?

I've heard that grief is our unspent love looking for an escape from our bodies. And sometimes, I wonder if my birth marks the day your grief slipped out of your body in the shape of a child. 

Mom, I’ve fashioned a surrogate out of every grade school teacher your age. And I blocked your number, so that “I love you” are the last words you ever say to me. 

But the truth is, I still hope you’ll call me. Call me tu vida, call me tu cielo, tu niña preciosa y todas las cosas lindas que mi abuela me llama en su despedida. Mom, the truth is I see your face wherever my reflection will follow.

The other day, I cried myself awake. I had dreamt that you finally apologized, and I said it was a miracle. And isn’t an apology just showing someone all the unspent love we still hope they will accept? 

Mom, the truth is I’m still that little girl, reaching for a pair of shorts the way I once reached for a mother. I am still reaching, for the mom-

ents before it all collapsed under our gravity.