Skip to main content

Isn't It Pretty?

"Isn't it pretty to think so?"

She threaded her fingers into his hair. It was dark and smelled musky like it needed to be washed soon. She rested her nose on the top of his head.

"Pretty to think what?" he asked.

"To think that this," she gestured with a shrug "will not last."

He pulled away from her,"But I wanted it to last."

He looked at her, eyes wide and clear.

"This is the worst day of my life. Why do you think it's pretty?"

He pulled back even further the lines of his face etched deeply between his brows.

"I just thought--I mean it's pretty to think there will never be another moment like this again. Even if it's horrible, it's pretty to think you can never lose him again. The way you feel will never happen again."

She looked at him and reached out again, but this time he pulled away and pressed his back firmly against the worn brown couch.

"I can't believe--I mean I understand but don't say those things to me when--" Jacob's voice broke.

He got up and moved toward the kitchen. His dad had left dishes in the sink from the night before. The trash was full and smelled of ripe oranges. Jacob grabbed the red plastic handles and cinched the bag tight locking out the smell. Dana stood in the doorway, her mouth about to open until she saw the closed tight white line of his mouth.

He walked past her to the back door, wordless.

She looked around and finally walked toward the sink, pushed the sleeves of her beige sweater up, and turned on the faucet. The sound of the running water echoed in the silence and sounded even louder once the door closed. She ran her fingers under the water to test the temperature, gasped, and pulled away. Her skin scalded.

"Leave them. I'll clean-up."

"No, I want to help--I want..." her voice trailed off.

The water still ran in the background. She grabbed a sponge and squirted soup on it.

"I said leave it!"

Dana turned and looked at him. His face was red and pinched. Saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth. Without saying a word she turned back toward the sink and grabbed a food crusted dish. She felt his hand on her shoulder tighten as he spun her around

Comments

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? ...

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...

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...