Clap When You Land(44)
“Just breathe, Yaya. Así.”
& through the screen of my tears
I see her own eyes are full, ready to cry, but maybe I’m just imagining it.
I have never been an older sister to anyone.
I didn’t even grow up with one of the strays.
The chickens we killed were for food & ceremonies, & I didn’t name or coddle even one of them.
So it is a strange feeling that’s being tattooed on my heart.
This need to comfort my crying, sad sister.
What do I know about providing comfort?
Of making myself a place of solace?
& yet it seems I know a lot because Yaya folds herself into my arms & wets my blouse with her sniffles, & I don’t even want to smack her across the back of her head for ruining one of my good shirts.
Fifty-Three Days After
Camino & I walk a long ways to a river the next day.
& I wonder at how our father split himself & his love & implanted us each with something of him
because the girl swims like a dolphin while I plop around in the water, holding on to big rocks & kicking my feet.
& I feel competitive for a second, want to tell Camino I would dust her on the chessboard if she played.
But I know this is petty. Swimming seems like therapy to Camino. Her shoulders drop; her skin glows.
It is the closest to happy I’ve seen her since getting here.
On the other hand, chess has never been stress relief for me; chess is the definition of stress itself. My mind wrestling with every possibility & outcome, my thumb war with the pieces trying to decide where they should land does not seem half as smooth as Camino’s backstroke. I push onto my back & float downstream. It is hard to remind myself I am not playing against my sister. We are on the same team, I tell myself.
Even if I don’t actually believe that.
Fifty-Four Days After
The ceremony we had for Papi in New York is nothing compared to what is planned in DR.
Tía & Camino arrange an entire party.
Mami looks on disapprovingly
as a band of men in white show up with drums & tambourines, & it’s a good thing the grave site isn’t too far from the church because dozens & dozens of people show up, until we’re a blur, a smudge of people dressed like ash
advancing down the street.
I borrowed a light-colored dress from Camino, & we walk down the street arm in arm.
People sing songs I don’t know.
I think Papi would have loved us making such a fuss.
at the grave site the casket is lowered the earth again welcoming
a song home Mami heaves as if she will jump in the caoba trees bow low
the wood gleams words intoned I lick sweat off my lip Tía rocks
back & forth I cannot hold her my sister
grasps my hand I feel her squeeze & do not let go hold tight the ground ruptured
my father’s body
fills the hole dirt is thrown on the casket filled up
& made whole again
but not the same
Tía Solana begins the novena, the nine days of prayer, immediately after the body is lowered into the ground.
Mami sits in a corner of the house. Not praying. Not moving.
Tears steadily fall down her cheeks
but not a single sob pushes forth from her mouth.
I touch her shoulder once, but she is holding vigil.
I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for her
to be here. All the painful memories she must have, all the ones she will have after today. I try not to feel guilt for having made her face this. But it still twists me up to see how hard it is for her to look at this house, to speak to these neighbors, to imagine this life my father had.
People come from all over to feast on the food
we spent yesterday cooking; to pull rosary beads through their fingers & usher my father’s spirit into heaven. & I wonder where his spirit
has been this whole time if only now is when
we are all officially praying for him?
Has he been here? Has he been here this whole time?
Has he watched us wrestle with the gift & curse he left behind?
After the novena, all the neighbors
fill plates of food.
Everyone but Yahaira’s mami eats. She
sits by the window
staring at absolutely
nothing. Even Vira
Lata is chewing a bone out back. I walk over
to her, but stop before I speak.
I know I am hovering.
I am so unsure of myself around this woman.
Who probably wishes
I had never been born.
As if she hears my thought, she turns & pins me with her gaze.
“I noticed you were rubbing a hand on your chest,
& Yahaira told me you’ve lost weight,” I say.
Her eyes fly to her daughter, who is listening to old Juanita tell one of her elaborate stories.
I force myself to rush on.
I don’t want to seem like I’m sucking up to her.
It’s just so clear she’s in pain.
It hurts me to watch it. It reminds me of my own.
“It’s just, all studies show these are signs of high stress.