Clap When You Land(34)
this isn’t an uncommon story.
A lot of people don’t finish school
or follow their dreams. That fairy-tale plotline is for telenovelas.
Instead of saying soft, nice words, I fold clean towels & stack dirty dishes. I sweep & make myself useful.
It is the best kind of gift I can offer Carline.
My father having two families is also not an uncommon story.
When Yahaira messaged me
she seemed unutterably betrayed.
As if she couldn’t believe this of Papi.
But me, I know a man can have many faces & speak out of both sides of his mouth; I know a man can make decisions based on the flip of a coin;
a man can be real good at long division, give away piece after piece after piece of himself.
I do not tell Carline any of this. I hand her back the child.
I promise to check on her again next week.
She asks me if I heard back about the message I sent, but I do not know how to pucker my mouth around the words I want to say. What does another burden do for Carline? & a part of me feels shame.
It is then I know, my father has become a secret, even from my dearest friend. He’s become an unspeakable name.
All I want is Papi back.
I want his
booming laugh
to shake the walls.
I want his heavy knock to the
outside door.
I want his
stupid sayings,
& his angry bellow, & his mixed-up English he would pepper
in conversation
& his eyes that misted over when he prayed
or when he danced.
There are pieces of him all over
this barrio,
all over República Dominicana, & beyond that to New York City, but I can’t bundle those pieces.
Can’t tie them tight with twine; can’t blow life into them, or shed light onto them or assemble those pieces to make anything, anyone, resembling him.
The news no longer shares updates about the plane crash; there are more important
or current tragedies to cover.
Throughout the neighborhood, people keep candles lit in windows, & every time I walk by a storefront someone tips their hat
& asks if I need anything.
The rest of the world has moved on to bigger & juicier news; so many of us here seem suspended in time, still waiting for more information, still hoping
this is a nightmare we’ll wake from.
Forty-Two Days After
My skin itches from missing the sea.
I force myself to help Tía with her cough syrups & making her rounds until
I snicker one time too many beneath my breath.
Tía waves her hand in my face. “Te fuiste lejo.”
& she’s right. My mind drifted off far away.
“When was the last time you went swimming?
You’re just like your mother.
She was always happiest when she was near the water.
It’s why she loved visiting El Malecón.”
& I know I can’t avoid the water forever, especially not now.
In my room I hold my swimsuit up to my nose & the scent of laundry soap is a small comfort.
What are arms in the water if not wings?
I slice through the liquid sky.
Push the water behind me.
I move with a speed
I’ve never moved with before.
Out into the ocean & back.
Until my wings again become arms that are aching
& my lungs need big gulps of air.
I push onto my back & float.
The curved spoon of moon peeks through clouds.
When I open my eyes
to the sand, there he is.
There he always fucking is.
“You were swimming
as if demons were chasing with torches behind you.”
I roll my shoulders
before walking calmly to shimmy into my shorts.
Pretend not to see El Cero checking out my ass from where he’s crouching.
“Is this where you want me, Camino?
Begging at your feet?”
The body is a funny piece of meat.
How it inflates & deflates in order to keep you alive, but how simple words can fill you up or pierce the air out of you.
El Cero gives me more goose bumps than freezing water. & never the kind that means you’re moved.
Always the kind that means run hard & fast in the other direction.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
But he shakes his head almost sadly.
“You need me.”
Leave me alone, Cero. Just leave me the hell alone.
On my way home from the beach I get caught in the rain.
Tía is stirring an asopao in a huge pot; the rice & meat stew fills the house
with the scent
of bay leaves. She gives me a look & points her large metal spoon at my tablet. “That thing has been chirping, & you’re lucky I didn’t put it on the porch so this rain could shut it up.
Turn the volume down on that thing.” Although Papi was not her brother,
she’d known him forever. I have yet to ask her how she’s doing. The notifications on my tablet pop up in long succession.