Veronica

I still think of her, my beautiful black Honduran friend, from my first grade class.

We would sit next to each other in class and play hopscotch during recess.  

Her bright pink bows and clips bouncing in the air. 

We had a lot in common: We liked to play with our Barbies, watch the same shows, 

and we both liked White boy George from our class.

George had hazel eyes and dirty blonde hair cut into the popular mushroom cut of the 90's.

One day Veronica decided to tell him she liked him, to which he replied, " yuck I don't like girls

with dark skin."

That day our walk home with our moms was unusually quiet for the two of us.  

Our moms, kept asking if we were ok to which we both nodded yes.  

The next morning we all walked to school together and Veronica was her usual happy self.

I was so glad that things were back to normal and my friend was ready to talk and jump over the

concrete cracks with me. 

At one point she held her head up high and said, "I'm becoming white and George is going to like

me."

I looked at her, a bit confused, and waited for her to finish. 

Raising her arm, her hand in front of my little face, she said, "Look at the bottom of my hands...

They're white.  Just like the bottom of my feet too... Soon I'll be white all over and George will like

me."

I didn't say anything.  I didn't know what to say, but I knew she was wrong. 

I just looked at my friend. 

She didn't say much after that either. 

She walked right next to me and looked ahead, a small smile on her face. 

Together, we walked in silence the rest of the way.  

 

With You

This journey with you hasn't been perfect.

Nothing real ever is.

But it's always been bountiful, and growth is beautiful.

The rough waters showed our endurance and over and over we remain committed to this. To us.

It feels like work, but good work.

It’s the dream job.

We are wiser together,

stronger,

and yet more vulnerable.

We materialize everything that feels good and light in our lives.

We know it's God-sent because the steps don't drain us...they don't leave us restless.

With you, I’ll walk the great mile.

My Ancestors Are My Entourage

My hair always gets knotted in the middle of my head. I'm not sure how it gets into these huge unmanageable knots, but I must condition my hair twice a week to ensure that the knots don't get out of control and I end up breaking and harming too much of it.  I remember hearing my mom once say, “Por eso I cut my hair, mi’ja… because it would get knotted too!  As much as I hate to admit that I have any similarities with my mother, I assume I get it from her.

So, every time I am in the process of untangling my hair, and thinking of my mother,  I wonder what other traits, qualities, and characteristics have I received from my family and my ancestors. Who in my family felt the urge to assist the masses? Who yearned to pencil their thoughts? Which one of them was selfish? Which one was bold, fierce, and unapologetic? Was any of them afraid sometimes? Naïve?

Am I a combination of all of them? 

I can connect parts of my character with both of my parents, and I'm certain they can connect some of theirs with what they saw in their parents. 

And it amazes me that this certainly goes on eternally.

Moments

Every time I see a crack

on the sidewalk, 

I think of that warm sunny day. 

“Hurry up! Get dressed!”, my father said.  

We were on our way 

And the neighbors waved as we walked past them.

My smile took up my whole face 

And they noticed.

I was on my Dad’s shoulders, his hands on my legs to sturdy my place.  

He hummed an unfamiliar tune 

and I removed his Panama hat and placed it on my head.

We laughed.  

The cracks on the sidewalk made my ride on his shoulders bumpy and thrilling 

And I enjoyed every second of it.

Before long we arrived at the playground and I ran straight to the swings.

My dad pushed and I felt the breeze on my face.  

My eyes closed.  My smile still wide.

It wasn’t long before it was over and he had to return me

like a favorite book to the library.

 

A kiss on forehead, A strong embrace, and A “Dios Te Bendiga.  I love you.” 

And I?

I smiled and patiently waited until next time.  

Back in the day....

Although I'm extremely grateful for the present, the love, and the many blessings in my life today, this one is for the good ol' days. 

This is for playing hopscotch and for being the only Puerto Rican girl that could double dutch in my hood.

This is for having imaginary friends, like Hecenito. 

This is for Jerry Rivera's Cara De Niño and Das Efx's They Want EfX.

For Mr. softee cones, piraguas, and coco-mango-cherry ices. This is for every time I got on my brother Ray's nerve following him around. This is for Easter Sunday's at the "machinas" (a.k.a the carnival).

This is for every time I scraped my knee falling off my bike or for riding one of Mahogany's rollerblades while she rode the other one. 

This is for playing "skip it" and for getting wet in the "Pompa". 

This is for that one time Mahogany and I took a ride in a jeep with our older sisters, Karen and Emily.  The breeze through our hair and the music in our ears had us feeling so dope.  

This is for spending all of our money playing street fighter, Atari, and Ms. Pacman in Yogi's "Candy store". Even though they ran numbers and God knows what else there, that was our Chuck E. Cheese. 

This is for Calvin's "Yogi Yogi has no teeth" song that had Mahogany and I in tears! And for Lil Vicious and Doug E. Fresh's Freaks. This is for the time Mary freaked the boy at that house party dancing to that same song. Before she discovered crack, she was one of the baddest in the hood. 

This is for big boom boxes, tapes, walkmans, and recording your favorite jams from the radio. This is for rewinding and playing any song repeatedly, so you could write the lyrics down on paper and memorize it.  

This is for watching the Cosby Show, Fresh Prince, Full House, Family Matters, Growing Pains, Saved by the Bell, and Hanging with Mr. cooper.  This is also for listening to Brandy and Mariah Carey, and watching Dirty Dancing over and over again.

This is for the best Christmas holidays with the family: When we banged on pots and went through the halls in "parandas". This is for crying on New Year's Eve even though we were too young to have anything to cry about.  

This is for breaking night, chilling on stoops, playing spades with our friends, while the old men yelled "capicu!" over their domino table.  

This is for borrowing milk crates from Raymond's bodega so we can sit, listen to the guys, and watch them drink 40's and Old E's, but not before they pour a little out for the dead homies.

This is for man hunt, kick the can, and Te Lo Monto.

This is for taking pictures in films that never got developed. 

This is for Jordans, Puff Daddy and the Family’s, No Way Out, and Skate Key on Fridays.  This is for every time I did the Heel Toe.

This is for booty tag and first kisses.  For my first real make out, with David, at Skate Key.  How classy.  

This is for throwing Parties in Titi's house without her knowing.  For the Blind Man’s Bluff game and hiding behind the Christmas tree.  

This is for the night Kayla, Jelitza, and I had a water fight while Glory slept and woke her up by dragging her out of her bed and wetting her.  As If that's not bad enough, we also went to bed and let her clean up our mess.  I still want to say sorry to her.  

This is for high school days, sharing clothes with our friends, parties, get togethers, recording ourselves while we fake danced like strippers, playing Jenga, dancing Palo with the Dominicans, playing speed punks, and listening to Hot 97 mix cd's, jamming to Jaheim.  This is for every time we sent Natalia to the liquor store because she looked the oldest.  

This is for the time Mahogany found 40 dollars in a birthday card and treated me to a nice day out.  

This is for shooting pool and movie theatre dates.  This is for the many nights we spent at the bowling alley on 161st street.  

This is for Dawson's creek.  This is for Joey picking Pacey.  

This is for all the times that I thought were not important and as it turns out they were the best times of my life.  

This is for those times and those memories that I wrap myself in when the world feels cold and I feel alone.  

We grow up, we "move up", we do better, but there's nothing like those simple times…those times when we kicked it with our friends, felt the breeze, had a quarter water, and a great big laugh.

 

  

Night

When the Prosecco has chilled enough

When the strawberries are cut perfectly

When the sun has set and the moon is shinning bright through our window

When my skin has dried from the hot shower

 

When the Manchengo and the olives are placed on the plate

When the spread is ready and 

the blanket is spread,

turning our living room into a picnic at the park,

When we finally sit and laugh so hard 

as we usually do…

 

When you pick my mind

When I hear your thoughts

When the music gets louder 

When I taste the honey on your lips

 

When our souls dance together in the breeze

When your hand brushes my curls from my shoulder 

 

When the candle glows…

 

That's when I’m the happiest.  

 

for·give
fərˈɡiv/
verb
stop feeling angry or resentful toward (someone) for an offense, flaw, or mistake.

When I was 10 years old my grandmother said to me, “forgive, but don’t forget”.  I sat on her lap and listened, but I didn’t understand.  I played with her elephant drop earrings and simply nodded.  I couldn’t understand:  I was young and inexperienced.  However, I always remembered what she said to me.  It was engraved in my soul.  

Time passed and I always kept her message close, but as an adult, I often thought, “forgiving and not forgetting” was conflicting.  It implies a sense of holding on to the past, a sense of grudge.  Doesn’t true forgiveness mean a clean slate?  I wondered.  

Forgiveness, however, is really about the discontinuance of feelings of anger.  It’s about moving forward with new emotions.  

It has nothing to do with clean slates.  

Interesting, right?

And that’s the funny thing about actions: We can never take them back and when the feelings of anger pass, when forgiveness occurs, where do these past feelings go?     To oblivion or absorption?

I’ll let you decide for yourself, but I know where I stand.  

I know what my grandmother taught me, and every time I’m hurt, lied to, or deceived, and I forgive, I remember the running tally and hope that they don’t run out of chances.

Mums The Word

Author’s Note: 

Allow me to be clear, and state, that my sentiments, like anyone else’s, are always subjective in nature and only show one side to multi-dimensional situations: My feelings only show a piece of a much larger puzzle.  I hope that fact allows readers to have empathy regarding the substance the following pages will share.  

When I think about the most simplest interactions between a mother and a daughter: hugging, kissing, innocent caresses, dancing, applying makeup, cooking, laughing, joking, and sharing secrets, I cannot help, but notice all that has lacked in the relationship between my mother and I.  It is not my intention to confuse people.  I don’t want people to think that my mother wasn’t caring (in her own way), or that she ever mistreated me (intentionally) because I could never say that about her, since it isn’t true, but a loving and affectionate relationship we absolutely never did have.  

My earliest memories of my mother take place in the south Bronx.  We lived in an ugly, old, and dingy one-bedroom apartment with my father and my brother (until he moved out in his teens.  First, to my grandparents’ home, where my sister also lived, and then into his own home with his much older girlfriend).  My brother and my mother always had their own issues.  I do not know much regarding the root of the problem because I was so young and unaware at the time, but I do know that he was angry and his anger was directed at her. 

The apartment was bigger than most because it was an old pre-war apartment building, but still felt small for a family of four.  However, we made the best of it.  My dad worked and financially supported us, while my mother stayed home to clean, cook, and care for my brother and me.  

In the time we spent in that apartment, I do not remember any hugs or kisses.  Whenever I asked her to play a game with me, she never agreed.  I would have to wait for my dad to get home for any entertainment.  Although my dad worked all day and came home to his usual routine: get into a hot shower, eat dinner, and watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, he would still sit through a game of Connect Four with me if I asked.  She never asked me about my day or helped me with my homework.  From a very young age I learned that I couldn’t rely on anyone else but myself for entertainment or matters regarding school.  In her defense, she couldn’t help me with my schoolwork because she didn’t speak much English, and perhaps that was what kept her from playing games with me.  But my mother was strange.  I always thought she was unlike any of the other mothers I heard about during recess. 

My mother never talked to me about the “birds and the bees”.  That caused uncomfortable and insecure feelings regarding puberty and sexuality for me.  I can still recall a time when I had my yearly physical and my doctor asked her if I had started “developing”.  More specifically, he asked her if I had any pubic hair, and my mother looked at the doctor with disgust in her eyes, raising her shoulder and turning her head away, she said, “I do not know.  I don’t look there”.  The doctor, a bit surprised, turned her head and pulled my panty down to look.  I lied there stiff as a board with tears streaming down my eyes immediately after the tug of my underwear.  I hated my mother at that moment.  

We moved from the Bronx apartment to a bigger and nicer apartment in Harlem.  It had been confirmed, prior to the move, that my brother would definitely not live in the new apartment with us, so that meant my very own room.  It also meant that someone else was raising another one of my mother’s children. 

Although my memory is one blurry Monet, I remember quite a few things that occurred in the Harlem apartment.  Some of the most vivid memories are of me slamming my door and leaving “I hate you” notes for my mother all over the apartment.  It didn’t take much for my mother and I to ruffle each other’s feathers.  I can still hear the echoes of her voice criticizing my looks.  I was always too skinny, had “bad hair”, and ugly big lips.  It’s peculiar because in most cases when children are subjected to such harsh criticism, at such a young age (especially from their parents), the child usually develops low self-esteem, but I never did.  Whenever she would say these things to me, I never believed them.  I always believed she was crazy and didn’t know what was true beauty. I looked at her slim lips and thought they were unattractive.  I was grateful that I inherited my father’s full pout.  Perhaps, subconsciously, I secretly hoped that an exterior resemblance to my father’s facial features would also mean that I reflected the inner workings of his spirit.  

One night in that Harlem apartment stands out in my mind more than any other.  My brother and his much older girlfriend were staying with us for a couple of weeks and my brother happened to be in a jovial mood, so his girlfriend and I took advantage.  They were already parents to my oldest nephew, but he was taking a nap when we decided to engage in a playful game of hide and seek.  Full of excitement, I remember looking for my brother through the entire apartment.  We searched my parents’ room, the closets, and ultimately made it to the broom closet in the kitchen, from which he jumped out and scared us to a halt.  We jumped with our hands on our chest and by the time we caught our breath we were already laughing.  We eventually stopped laughing and his girlfriend decided to pick up the trashcan he had knocked over when he jumped out to frighten us.  Almost suddenly she turned around and asked about these small straws and small plastic bags that had fallen from the trash.  Being the ordinary 11 year old girl I was at that time, I didn’t have any idea what she was holding and couldn’t comprehend why my brother—the same person that was laughing, smiling, playing, and jumping out of closets to scare both of us—was now screaming and cruelly insulting his girlfriend.  It all happened so quickly and I must’ve still been succumbed in laughter that I never heard her original question.  I just saw her there in the kitchen holding the small clear straws, the small clear bags, in her small white hand, and the look of confusion in her eyes.  My brother’s nostrils were flared, and he had a look of resentment in his eyes.  He also seemed nervous and in need for better words, as he shook his head and yelled the only words I heard all night after that hide-and-seek game, “I don’t fucking know.  Why did you pick that up?  Just throw it out and shut the fuck up!  There was hate in his voice and I couldn’t help but feel his hatred as I tried to sleep that night, but remained awake thinking about the unexpected and unwelcomed secret we found in that broom closet.  That night a seed of anger was planted and sprouted with such power and force to disturb sleep for many more nights.  

The next day I attempted to forget what happened the night prior to no avail.  It was only made worse when my brother’s girlfriend communicated the secret to me.  It turned out that my mother was a habitual drug user.  Like clockwork, she will sniff cocaine, along with my father, aunt, uncles, godmother, and other family friends every Friday and Saturday.  “Don’t you notice now that they all go to the bathroom in pairs or in threesomes?”, she casually asked me.  I couldn’t stop the tears from falling from my eyes.  My brother’s girlfriend continued to ask me repeatedly why I was crying.  “It’s not that big of deal”, she said. “My parents did it too”.  I’m not sure why she would think that would comfort me, or even more so, I cannot comprehend why she would share what my brother told her in confidence that night, with an 11 year old, but nevertheless she did and life was never the same after that.  

That night while playing hide and seek I was only searching for my brother.  I never expected to find this.  I thought it was only he jumping out of the closet to scare me.  Now I had different fears. 

I didn’t take the news well.  I was ashamed.  I was angry.  I felt betrayed by my own fantasy about who I thought my parents were versus who they really were.  Although, my father was as guilty, I was more disappointed in my mother.  I had placed her on a pedestal that crumbled like a soft cookie at the discovery of that news.  My mother was not supposed to engage in such behaviors and now her limited “pep talks” seemed so hypocritical.   While my father is the parent who taught me about the value of a great education and who taught me about the importance of a great work ethic, my mother is the parent who taught me not to let boys touch my privates, to never accept candy from strangers, and that drugs were horrible habits to acquire.  Yes, she would say that to me.   She was a hypocrite and I hated her for that.  

In the aftermath of all of this I became a little detective and was able to pinpoint exactly when she was getting high.  I began to notice the blood stained tissue in the trash, the manner in which she pressed her lips after a couple of runs to the bathroom, the bags with white powder on top of the kitchen cabinets, which, years later, my siblings confessed to throw away, but mostly I noticed how in time the Friday and Saturday night ritual became Friday, Saturday, Sunday ritual, then Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, until ultimately I couldn’t take it anymore and left my mother’s house.  I followed in the steps of my older siblings and three years after discovering that awful secret I left the toxic environment I lived in to live with my aunt, who had also been a drug user, but wasn’t anymore, and even if she was, she wasn’t my mother, so that made me feel better.  

I left my mother’s house, after the final split between my parents.  Though she had packed his clothes and kicked him out many times before, the summer of my 14th year of life, she kicked him out and he never returned.  He had been sleeping on the couch in the living room for years and along with the forgotten intimacy, there was an absent friendship, and only fighting and arguing resided there, but it was still surprising to me that he didn’t return.  Without my father there I was able to move out because he would be the only parent with the power to stop me.  Who can say how many more nights were added to my mother’s habit now that she would be alone, in an empty apartment, knowing that everyone she loved had abandoned her.  

I cannot recall much of the status of the relationship between my mother and I in the years after I moved.  I remember seeing her on weekends, witnessing how much weight she lost, and eventually watching her move out of our old Harlem apartment into my grandmother’s house.  My grandmother lived a block away from my aunt, but that did not mean I saw her any more often.  She ended up hooking up with a guy that lived in our neighborhood and was my age.  He must’ve been as dysfunctional as she was since he had an alcoholic mother, who, rumor around the neighborhood was that she would let men sleep with her daughters in exchange for beer and money, and who obviously wasn’t much of a mother to any of her children.  He probably needed a mother and she probably yearned to provide the maternal care she was never able to give to her own children, so they seemed to have “fallen in love” with one another.  Their relationship lasted a few years and during that time I saw my mother at what I believe were some of her lowest points.  I often saw her with bruises that stemmed from her abusive relationship with him, I saw her on drugs or drunk almost all the time, and once I even witnessed her boldly buying cocaine while sitting outside with me.  She didn’t care anymore.  Her slumped frame and droopy sunken eyes communicated messages she would never say verbally.

Shortly after the day I saw her make her precious purchase, I decided to write my mother a letter that would inform her of the many disturbing feelings I had since the day my brother’s girlfriend told me that forbidden piece of information.  In the letter I poured my anger, sadness, and opinions about the matter.  I folded it and carried it in my pocket for days, weeks, months, until one day, during my senior year of high school, I read it one final time and ripped it to pieces.  My heart would race and my palms would sweat so much that I thought I would damp the paper while reading it.  I just knew I couldn’t give that piece of paper to her. 

I finally had a melt down in the bathroom of my grandmother’s apartment that Christmas Eve. I had picked her up at the airport because she had gone to Puerto Rico for a vacation and when I saw her walking toward my brother and me I hardly recognized her frail frame.  It was becoming too loud of a nightmare to ignore.  The entire car ride from the airport to my grandmother’s house was quiet.  In the bathroom I don’t remember what I said to her exactly: Time has done its usual job of stealing memories, but we spoke and for the first time I know I was able to show her that I was suffering.  I can’t remember the words, but I remember the emotion, the smell of urine, looking at the dingy bathroom tiles as she hugged me, and the stain my tears made on her suede navy blue blouse.

It’s been years since that night and I am now a mother myself.  My mother has overcome her addiction to cocaine: it’s been years since I’ve seen her move her lips around her face in circles with a clenched jaw.   She’s single; she is also unemployed because of a knee injury, and still living in my grandmother’s Bronx apartment.  Over the past years she has had to care for her own mother due to my grandmother’s progressive Alzheimer’s disease, and witnessing her assume that responsibility has been one of the only special moments in which she has shown unconditional love for another person.  However, that hasn’t impeded her from lashing her evil nature at anyone when she sees fit.  She’s impatient, fastidious to the point where it’s disturbing, and is mean to the children in the family.  There are still no kisses or warm embraces.  A few years ago, she ruined Christmas for everyone by being so rude to the kids that my sister decided to leave the celebration, thus provoking my mother to verbally attack my sister and leaving her with no other choice but to attack back.  That is my mother; that is what she does.  She will taunt, degrade you and attack you until you are either too hurt to do anything at all or lash back and strike her with the same venom.  Seeing their exchange brought me back to earlier in the year when the summer heat was causing me to sweat sitting in the plastic wrapped cushion chair in her dining room table.  That afternoon she continued to taunt me about my past relationship with my kids father.  This is significant because he and I had a hard breakup a couple of years prior and there was still a lot of raw wounds when it considered my relationship with him.  That was crystal clear to everyone.  He and I hurt each other to the point of unforgivable grounds.  The last straw was the baby he had with another woman. But there I was, with my mom, as she purposely continued saying mean things and comparing him and that old relationship to my new relationship with a man who had healed my heart and brought my spirit back to life.  Since she continued to purposely upset me, I, in defense, lashed out, “Since you love my kid’s father so much, why don’t you go be with him?”  Her wide eyes and glaring stare confirmed that she was shocked at my response, so she then continued and said, “Well I’m not the only one that thinks he’s a great catch, since he already has a woman that loves him and that gave him the daughter that you never gave him.”  My eyes immediately swelled with tears and all I managed to say to her before getting up and storming out was, “Don’t you ever say that shit to me again”.  My mother had seen my sons and me cry our eyes out when we found out about their half sister.  She knew the agony I felt by that single confirmation that my family as I had pictured it would never be and none of that stopped her from saying those words to me that day.    

Since I can remember my mother has always been a very peculiar woman, but time and life has taught me many lessons and I can understand her more now.  I now know that her past never allowed her to learn how to show love.  There is not a doubt that she feels it, but the message gets lost in translation. I will never be able to say that my mother taught me how to cook, how to apply makeup, or anything about life and how it works.  She didn’t teach me about being a mother to my own children and when I see her interactions with her grandchildren, I know she can’t teach me anything about being a grandmother either.  I don’t remember a time when my mother genuinely grabbed and showered anyone with attention or affection, but I can remember many criticisms and verbal attacks.  That’s just who she is.  Anger is rooted inside of her and has sprouted a tree. Those moments when she unleashed her anger and dysfunction will forever remain in my mind.  I cannot erase them, but I choose to not leave any room for anger in my heart, and I chose a while ago to forgive her. 

I now understand that she didn’t know any better.  She only did the best she could with what she had, and time has softened her.  She is now a lot less cruel.  I love her and I’m grateful to her for giving me life.  

Of this subject there will be no more.  

My Mom. Ma. Mommy. Mamá. Mummy…

MUM. 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

Moonlight II

I lay with you

and you caress me slowly.

 

You begin with my hair, 

and then you press my 

cheeks as you kiss me,

Still slowly.

 

Your grip is tight,

endearing,

sensual.

 

You push my face out of the way 

because my collar bone is next. 

Your lips pressed and your tongue wanders.

It spreads through my body.

 

I have goosebumps 

as you continue to explore my soft corners

and my secret places.

 

You sometimes whisper in my ear.

When you do, I listen

and I answer.

 

I want to say so many things to you, 

but I let my body do the talking.

 

I bite your neck. Softly.

 

Our breathing rocks our stomachs back and forth.  

We rise and we fall together.  In harmony.  

 

Our legs intertwine and I know what intimacy is.

 

The tips of your fingers are on my backbone.

Your thumbs press down on my sides 

and you move me.

 

You smell like sweet musk.

You taste like wild berries.

 

You hold me close and tight.

Your arms strong and welcoming:

I feel warm, safe, whole, relieved…

 

I give you all my love and in return you give me all of yours.

 

You are my piece of heaven.  

This is magic.  

Crowded Beds

“The half-life of love is forever.” –Junot Diaz

I

My life can be divided between three men: the one I loved and lost, the one that could’ve been, and, finally, the one that is. It’s that simple. They each own a part of my heart and often a time I’ve felt guilty about the matter, but I cannot control that particular muscle in charge of our sentiments and emotions, for it has a mind of its own, or maybe lacks one altogether.

When it concerns my first love, the one I loved and lost, the first man I shared my life with, all I will say is that he still lingers. He remains a fixture in the abyss of my heart and I don’t think he’ll ever find his way out. Our history has shown me that when it concerns affairs of the heart, time hasn’t been my friend. Many moons have passed since I’ve realized that I will forever carry him with me. His ghost constantly haunts me, as I’m sure my ghost haunts him. Ours is the typical story of young love. We met when we were barely aware of our own lives: far too young to engage in a life together, but just like adolescence, love’s hold took a wild hold of our lives and we didn’t have any other option other than succumbing to the wonderful euphoria that was our relationship. I truly loved him and he truly loved me, of this I am certain, but what is also true is that neither of us knew how to execute that love, so therefore we made a mess of it and left it to die on the street. Its death was long, miserable, and everlasting. Every time I see him a little part of me dies again.

And I do see him often because we have children together: Two beautiful boys. Our relationship continues to be as rocky as ever. We hardly talk. In fact we hardly ever meet eyes. If we need to communicate, regarding the children, we text. We send texts that are either dry or simply cruel. Those are the two types. There are no in-betweens. We do not talk. We can’t do that, so we write. We type on our phones. I sometimes find it strangely reminiscent of our much happier times. It turns out that when we first began dating we would write letters to one another. I’m not quite sure of the reason why we picked up that ancient tradition. We weren’t separated by oceans or fighting in wars like those people in past times whose only form to reach a loved one was through a letter. We didn’t live in an Amish town; we had phones, email, and instant messenger, but instead we picked up pens and poured our hearts onto a sheet of paper. When our relationship was finally over I had two small cases full of our correspondence to one another, sweet little tokens of our affection…

It is sad because of the children, but also for us. How can two people who were lovers, best friends, and family become complete strangers? Sure, a lot happened to ruin the love: lies, betrayal, hurt, but does that have to mean that there could never be a friendship? I’ve asked myself that question many times. I cannot stop missing his presence, our playful banter, or that particular feeling of comfort that only he provides. However, those times are definitely gone now. We have both moved on, in the correct direction, with no plans to return, but there are times when on our new journey it is soothing to look back and see if our eyes can still make out that familiar road.

II

All of the stars were aligned when I met the one that could’ve been: Meeting my MR. was a religious experience, and just as evil sprouted in a place of virtue, just as the devil turned into a deceiving serpent to tempt Eve, the perfection that was discovered when my MR and I met was ruined before it really began. We met by the grace of God through a mutual friend. I can still hear the sound of his voice on our first conversation. I can still see his small frame standing by his car outside my work with his oversized scarf, and the way he pulled me close to give me a quick peck on the cheek. I’m not sure if it was because he was such a careful driver or because of the nerves, but once we got in the car, he hardly ever looked at me. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, as I examined his hairline, his shiny skin, his posture, and his hands on the steering wheel. He seemed to glow.

I met him and dated, or talked really, because he lived in a different state, for only four months, but no one has ever had the impact that he had on my life in such a short period of time. He surpassed everyone and I didn’t even know him for half a year. The caliber of our relationship, as well as, the quality of our connection was superb and in many ways unexplainable. While my friends couldn’t understand why I was so fond of someone I had known for hardly any time at all, his friends were afraid that his feelings for me were the cause of my being the “rebound”, since he was recently out a relationship. But how could we explain (and make them understand and believe) that we had met someone we were completely attracted to, who held similar values, who had similar ambitions, and who in a matter of weeks could finish the sentence the other had begun? It was surreal.  

We went out for coffee that night, but it wasn’t until the following day that we went on our very first official date. We drove to Brooklyn to have Mexican food overlooking the famous Manhattan skyline. The food was great, the place was nice: quiet and intimate. The conversation was like none other. I told him a little about the story I had began writing the night prior and he shared some of the past events he had experienced that had affected who he was at that moment. As he spoke and told me the story of his life, I saw glimpses—fragments—of his pain. It was the first and only time I ever cried on a first date and the first time I cried for him.

Back at my apartment that night, I remember his breath in my face, and the rise and fall of his chest that kept my body slowly rocking with him. His hands grabbed and pinched my sides under my knitted burgundy sweater as our legs intertwined. The feel of his denim pants rubbed against the soft skin on my legs. A couple of times my hair would cover my face and in those moments he would move his hand from my side and run his fingers through my hair to push it back. We were silent, but our bodies were communicating in the candlelight. I could feel him on my inner thigh just as I could smell the lavender in the air that kept blowing in the room because of the cracked window. We fell asleep holding each other in that manner.

For that week I saw him a couple of times, all of which, led to our final night together during his visit to New York, and that night was New Year’s Eve. By the time I saw him it was past midnight, so New Year’s Day may be more appropriate. He brought with him an arrangement of flowers, and my first kiss for the New Year. There wasn’t ever a better feeling than those wonderful pouty lips pressed against mine. We hung out at my brother’s place and danced and partied the night away. The music we all listened to reflected the symphony playing in my heart. By the time, we made it back to my place it was so late the kids were trapped in their sleep and he and I were trapped in each other. Aware that tomorrow he would be on his trip back home, and that the next time I would see him would be weeks from then, forced me to appreciate our time even more so. I wanted to slow time, bargain with the devil for all the clocks in the world to stop that night. I yearned to hold him close while the water from all four oceans was measured and accounted for. We had shared intimacy up until that night on countless occasions, but on that early New Year’s morning, we needed to feel each other in a different way and so we both surrendered to one another. It was angelic: a glorious book of poetry.

Some beautiful things have a tendency to fall apart and this love story is no exception. Nothing and everything went wrong. Nothing had really even begun, but everything had ended. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was the past. Maybe it was our reservations. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was simply too good to feel true. Whatever the reason, the relationship halted. It was life’s oxymoron. And I was left with no other option, but to move on. Moving on led me to find my soul mate.

III

Meeting him was like all great things: it came with work, and compromise, and plenty of self-searching. I met him, in a way, through my best friend and platonic soul mate for 25 years. In an effort to get her back into the swing of dating after a very hurtful breakup with her on-again, off-again, boyfriend, I managed to convince her that we should both join a popular dating website. I had heard a lot of great things regarding the site from my fellow teacher friends, but I resisted at first, thinking that meeting someone through a computer simply wasn’t natural. I agreed with them, however, that we are living in different times, and that people are far too unattached from human contact and far too connected in social networks to meet on the train, or on walk outdoors, or at a bar, so believing my coworkers and wanting for my best friend (and maybe subconsciously for myself too) to possibly meet someone we would like, and possibly share a few good times with, we created our personal accounts.

I will not drag this part of the story out. I’ll just say that my account lasted nine days. That is all. I traded messages with him on the very first day, exchanged telephone numbers on the second day, and went out for our very first date one week later. My best friend cancelled hers after about a month, she is now on again with that boyfriend, but this time they are engaged to be married. The ways of the universe…

Getting to know him on the phone and then in person showed me that he and I have too much in common: we both have a passion for social justice, appreciate art, are spiritual, and open to new adventures. When I met him, I was immediately drawn to his intelligence, his manner of speaking, and his energy.

Our first date was to an art museum. He showed up at my place and although he was late, he was the perfect gentleman. He was out of the car to greet me, hug me, and open the car door for me. During our date it was obvious that he had thought carefully about our meeting. After all, he chose a museum and then a charming little place for margaritas and macaroni and cheese (my favorites!). I knew immediately that he paid attention and incorporated my interests into the date. This is something he continues to do.

However, when we met I began to notice that he was extremely different from the men I had previously dated. He was different in great ways, but different nonetheless, and that change, like any other, scared me. His personal style and his manner of thinking was a curve ball and I wasn’t sure if I had the necessary training to hit it out of the ballpark. Many times I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it. On many days, because of fear, I was ready to give up and force this man to exit my life. One day I tried ending everything and asked him not to waste his energy on a lost case as myself. I told him he deserved better, that he deserved more. After all, there I was with a great man, willing and able to make me happy, and I was refusing God’s blessing. He proved exactly how amazing he was by telling me he wasn’t going anywhere. In such a short time he put up a fight for me. He took charge of the situation and said, “you will fall in love with me”. And that’s exactly what happened.

I have fallen hopelessly in love with this man. I love his character, his integrity, and his mind. He constantly shows his love and dedication to me.  His thoughtful gestures, his affectionate soul, and the way he treats my children are reasons behind my love, but they are not all the reasons. I couldn’t possibly list them all. He is, without a doubt, my soul mate. I feel it in my core and soul and every time I kiss his full lips I know that he is magic. He is truly a manifestation of my dreams. My love for him forces me to be a better person everyday because that’s who I have to be in order to reciprocate all that he gives. It is a feeling like none other that I’ve experienced prior and I know that he is God sent.

So there it goes. That’s my love life in a nutshell: thirty years and three significant men later. The truth is they’re all special in their own way. Recently, I read a prompt that said, “If you were drunk and found yourself in one room with all the men you have loved, who will you turn to and hug?”

I closed my eyes and saw myself walking toward…

Untitled

"Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light." - Theodore Roethke

French Quarter Roaming 

We found a place to stop in

I remember the music was of our liking,

Different from the traditional Nawlins sound we kept running into

We began dancing:

Slowly moving our bodies to the rhythm and groove of the music.  

We were in perfect harmony.

 

Maybe you had one drink too many,

But while we moved our hips in unison

I saw lust in your eyes:

Tunnel vision,

Your eyes were laser focused

Your eyes were open

Your eyes were full of desire...

 

Your eyes were not on me. 

 

We continued dancing. 

I continued watching.

I saw the difference in your stare

I witnessed the way you licked your lips, smirked, 

took a sip of your drink, 

And continued watching...her.  

 

I'm not sure what I think I saw in the next moments as I continued to watch you watch her,

But it looked like ecstasy.  

 

I stood there and just stared at you.  

I needed confirmation:

I needed to convince my heart the crazy ideas suddenly on my mind were justified. 

My heart was beating so fast, 

my palms were sweaty, 

but I felt cold. 

My temperature dropped as I realized 

and contemplated.

 

Time was ticking...and I was a bomb ready to explode. 

 

You know what came next: disaster. 

I cursed you.

You called me "crazy".

Typical. 

 

We left...

 

There was silence in the car, 

in the room, 

in the bed, 

Silence remained.

 

That night

Forever changed me.  

That night 

I learned things about your capabilities:

 

I learned

You could be disrespectful, 

A liar,

A drunk, 

 

An ordinary man. 

 

And all this time I thought you shined a special light. 

 

Hmm... 

 

Moonlight.

Your eyes—brown and freckled, 

See qualities of me that my mirror never showed.

Your lips—full and warm,

Form words that my ears had only heard in love songs.

Your ears—perfect and open,

Welcome my thoughts, ideas, and sentiments with glee.

Your hands— big and strong,

Touch the inner workings of my curls, the arch of my back, the tips of my fingers, the soles of my feet.

Your feet— constantly moving,

walk miles on my behalf.

Your shoulders— strong and enduring, 

have held the weight of the world.

Your heart—

Awakens me.  

Your mind—

Makes me vulnerable.    

Your light—

Opens me.  

Your soul—

Gives me life.

It does.  

It always will.  

Forever more.  

Vibes

There’s a certain darkness—in your eyes—
It speaks to my spirit.
It welcomes it—it brings warmth—
In your tight embraces.

The wonders of this universe
Cannot compare to the wonder
That you are.

The brightest sunset—feels dull—
compared to the glow of your skin.
The bloomed tulip—cannot
resemble your exquisite form.

Your arrogant nose,
full lips,
cleft,
broad shoulders,
Artist’s hands,
Strong thighs—

A
Vision
From
Heaven.