Vivian Perez-Plocharczyk

On the sand I left my boat

After I broke up with my first serious boyfriend, 
I moved back to my mother’s house.
Estelita lived in Tercera Avenue, not Street,
Otherwise, the GPS will take you somewhere else.
I told her not to worry about preparing food for me,
that I usually would eat my three meals around work.

I never knew what I would encounter 
when I arrived at her place after work.
Repairmen?
Making holes in the floors, ‘fixing’ wiring that was working fine.
Securing the electric water pump nobody had tried to steal.
Church ladies?
More interested in her beef stew than talking about God.
Praying for her health after she would pay 
ten percent of her retirement check. 

One night, after the first five days, 
I arrived at her home at seven.
She was not there.
I was thirsty, 
but I couldn't find a single glass in the kitchen cabinets.
Or plates, cups, not even a single fork or spoon.
I looked inside the oven. No pots or skillets in there.
I searched around the house.  
I went outside and there they were.
All of them!
Including the blender jar 
and the pressure-cooking pot dripping leftover stew.
Somehow, a strange balanced structure of dirty dishes, pots, cups, and utensils was created
inside the laundry sink. 

Every morning and every night, the kitchen sink looked clean.
I had no idea; she had only put every dirty thing in the backyard.
It should be a funny sight, but it scared me.
With trembling hands, I put on an apron, 
started to wash them using the laundry sink.

She came back home from church 
wearing her usual denim dress.
“Do I help you?”
She looked at me with a childlike smile.
I shook my head.
How could she help me if she could not help herself?

The next morning, we drank coffee and ate toasted bread, reading El Diario Libre,
like an old couple.
I told her not to make dinner, 
that I would come home 
with chicken and spinach-stuffed bread.
Before going to work,
I washed the breakfast dishes while she sang: 
“En la Arena He Dejado Mi Barca”.

On the sand I have left my boat:
Next to you I will look for another sea.
You need my hands
my tiredness that others rest,
love that wants to continue loving.
Lord, you have looked me in the eye
smiling you have said my name. 

I had to leave because she was leaving already.
I wondered if people in Stockholm 
have to deal with situations like this one.
Knowing that even if you are in a place with someone, 
you are still alone.

The next day I met Luz, 
the cleaning lady that came once a week.
She said every Sunday morning, 
she found the dishes in the backyard, 
but she thought my mother was only getting old.

She did not know her like me.
Mami was the goddess of bleach and soap, 
the one who thought me how to recognize a scammer.

My sister and I took her to the doctor, and with
two words he explained everything:  mini stroke.
Fortunately, my two aunts said they will take her of our mother.
We helped her moved to their house 
where we knew she was going to be 
safe and surrounded by people. 

Today, after several mini strokes, 
my mom needs the help of a nurse twenty-four hours a day.
The last time I talked to her on the phone, 
her tongue struggled to make up words.
I talked for her, I asked her not to reply.

I hung up, ran to the bathroom to wipe the tears out of my face, noticing a new wrinkle.
My son wanted to use the toilet.
I went out, planting dozens of kisses on his neck.
“Mami, please!  I am not your boyfriend!”
He rightfully protested.
Then, I let him go.