Clap When You Land(29)

I do not want to hate a girl with a glowing name.

But I cannot help the anger planted in my chest, fanning its palm leaves wide & casting a shadow on all I’ve known.

I wonder what kind of girl learns she is almost a millionaire & doesn’t at all wonder about the girl across the ocean she will be denying food. Tuition. A dream.

Unless she doesn’t know about me.

I wonder what college she wants to go to.

I wonder if she will now be able to afford it.

They have ignored me my whole life, those people over there.

But one thing I learned from the Saints,

when the crossroads are open to you, you must decide a path.

I will not stand still while the world makes my choices.

This Yahaira

will learn

what carving your own way means.





Social media seemed like the easiest way to search two hours ago, but with so many girls named Yahaira Rios I haven’t stopped scrolling faces

trying to find a girl who looks like me.

I am about to quit when I see a profile

but the picture is only a black box, & the date my father died.

Although the profile is private,

I can see some posts, including condolence messages.

“Tío Yano was a great man. He’s in heaven now, RIP,”

a boy named Wilson has written. “I will always miss Pops,”

writes a girl named Andrea. & my heart thumps in my chest, & my fingers shake over the tablet as I press the message button.

I write a quick sentence & press Send before I can stop myself.

There is no way she can’t know who I am once she sees it.





After I send the message, I refresh the page

at least fifty times waiting for a response.

I walk into the kitchen to get some crackers.

I wash some dishes that are in the sink.

I dust the altar. Refill the vases with fresh water.

Then return to my tablet.

Still no response.

There is no time difference where my sister is, which means it is late afternoon.

Maybe she is busy

being rich & hanging out with her mother & not thinking about me.

I check the message one more time.

It does not show it’s been read.

It does not show it’s been opened.

I almost wish I could unsend the message.

But no, she deserves to read it.

I deserve to know & be known.

I turn off my tablet.





Tía & I go to El Malecón, where my parents re-met.

She carries a fresh jar of molasses & a watermelon; I haul the honeyed rum. La Virgen de Regla loves sweets.

Tía & I pray over the offerings; reciting the names of our ancestors. We kiss the rind, the jar, the glass bottle holding the rum.

We touch these items to our foreheads,

then we touch them to our hearts. I breathe the salty air, the rush of waves against stone joins us in our prayers.

We pour a bit of homemade mamajuana into the water, & Tía doesn’t even stop me when I take a sip from the bottle.

I am feeling guilty. I wonder if the girl in New York didn’t know about me, if a random message online might be a heavy thing to carry.

At least I had Tía’s honest & open face tell me the truth, not a random pixelated image. I pour my thick guilt into the water as well. The patron saint of the ocean is known for containing many parts of herself: she is a nurturer, but she is also a ferocious defender.

& so I remember that to walk this world you must be kind but also fierce.





After our trip to El Malecón, I walk back home & straight into my room.

I pull out my tablet & turn it back on.

My breath catches in my chest.

I search social media—

still no notification.

I stop myself just before I throw the tablet at the wall.

I was not born to patience.





I grab a sack & load it with

a small bag of rice & one of beans.

Soon, I don’t know how Tía & I will eat, but for now

we still have more

than the other people who live here.

I walk to Carline’s.

Waving to neighbors, avoiding potholes,

letting the sun

warm the skin on my back.

At her house,

Maman ushers me in,

her eyes tired,

& when I look at Carline I can tell she’s been crying.

I pass the sack to Maman, giving her an extra-tight hug hoping it offers comfort.

She hugs me tightly back, & for a second

I think she is also

offering comfort to me.

When she walks out back to el fogón,

the open fire where she cooks, I sit on the couch

& gently pull Luciano from Carline & onto my chest.

I can tell she

doesn’t want to let him go, but also that she needs a moment to collect herself.

I do not ask what happened.

She tells me herself.

“I lost my job.

They wanted me to start coming in.

But how could I leave him so soon? How?”

I nod along, humming to Luciano.

His lashes flutter