Skip to main content

The Things Which Float to the Top

I am a soup on the stove, blue orange gassed fueled fire heating me up slowly, until 
gradually I start to simmer. The tiny bubbles which disturb the smooth liquid surface are the things I cannot control. They are the tiny irritations in life which can't be avoided. 
The great moments which are needed.
As quickly as they began 
they are lost in the movement of the liquid that is life. 

Tiny bits of chicken from the bottom of the soup surface 
at times 
and bounce off the bottom of the pot. Those are the things I wish to avoid. 
The problems which are so heavy they sink back down to the bottom of the murky soup not to be seen for awhile. They are things like my dad, who deserves to be compared to chicken. And things like my grandma who died without letting me say good-bye.
How selfish of her. 

The heat increases  
and I bubble. 

I am a soup on the stove. 
The blue orange fueled fire has not increased. Only
the heat in the soup has. 
I bubble and boil and these, these are the things 
I can't avoid . They are the things that build and build over time. They are 
the people who disappoint you, the ones who's gaze you can't meet.
I avoid them, because,
they'll see themselves tumbling from the pedestal in the reflection of my eyes, clear
and unblinking.
These are things like people who weren't the friends I thought they were. Friends I trusted my heart to only to have them treat it as badly as the men who put distrust there in the first place.  
It is me, and all the moments of humanity, where things weren't just right, I 
wasn't just right, and I tumble and fall ungracefully in front of the world. And the world?
Well it doesn't turn away but 
only stands there to watch. 
They are him and those moments I am so afraid to be happy I can't breath. Even when I only see the reflection of us in his eyes. 

But, 
they are also all the times there are tears, 
from laughing so hard they are squeezed out the corners of my eyes like the last drops being rung from a towel, because
I can't stop laughing. 
They are the bubbles that join the blanket of boiling soup
that is my life.
Each bubble something
that makes the soup, 
soup.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...
3 comments
Read more

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...
Post a Comment
Read more

Thursday's with Carolyn & the Smokey Special

Dim lighting and a smokey feel without the smell. The voice of the singer, Carolyn, wraps around me as I stand in the doorway. " Give me one reason to stay here..."  Groups of friends crowded around tables filled with amber glasses and dancing ice. Laughter erupts, and smiles grace the faces of those around me. Chatter overlaps and wraps around and changes and morphs like small waves, moving, with the flow of our chorused voices. " Come together, right now, over me..." We talk, we sing, bursts of laughter at the crescendo of our conversation punctuate our sentences. Small talk, big talk, serious talk, all mingled at one table where new friends, old friends, and family sit together. " " You say one love, one life...."  " What did that mean ?"       " Another mojito ?"      " Pictures! "      "We had a presentation today, last minute."   "I do translations."             " T...
Post a Comment
Read more