Clap When You Land(45)

The aches. The loss of appetite.

Anyway, I fixed you a plate.

You should try & sleep tonight.

& remind yourself to take deep breaths.”

I wait. I know my tone is a presumptuous one

she will berate me for.

Instead, she reaches out & takes the plate I offer.

A soft smile tugs at her lips.

“He always did say you would make a

wonderful doctor.

He had grand plans that you’d attend Columbia. He said once you were in the States, he wanted you close.

We live right by the school, you know?” & I don’t know who is more surprised, me at the future my

father imagined without my knowing, or her, at the disclosure.

I nod & walk away

before either one of us says more. It seems

we’ve arrived

at peaceful ground,

& I want her to have this memory

when it is all

said & done.





You should stop smoking those cigars.

Where did you get it anyway?

Tía uses them

in her ceremonies

& always has some stashed in the house.

Ceremonies?

What ceremonies?

Oh, girl, you got a lot to learn about this side of the family.

Did you ever wonder about Papi’s beads?

He didn’t wear jewelry

except his ring.

It was like he was two completely different men.

It’s like he split himself in half.

It’s like he bridged himself across the Atlantic.

Never fully here nor there.

One toe in each country.

Ni aquí ni allá.





By the time the vecinos leave, it is after eleven.

Mami goes to wash up, mumbling about sleeping in a house her husband once shared with another woman.

She wanted to stay in a hotel, but I refused to leave.

& she refused to leave me.

Camino & I are on the patio, sitting in the rocking chairs just as Camino comments that storm clouds are gathering.

It is then that Tía Solana comes over & gives Camino a long, long hug.

“Lo siento that this

is how you spent your birthday.”

I feel lightning-struck dumb.

“Today is your birthday?

Why would you plan a burial today?”

Camino shrugs

& leans into Tía’s petting hand.

I can’t believe I’m empty-handed for my sister’s birthday.

I go into the bedroom Camino is sharing with me & rummage through my suitcase.

I have a pack of gum, some hair product she might like, my travel documents, Papi’s papers that Camino might want one day, but nothing I can gift.





At midnight it will be the end of my birthday & the day that Papi is put into the ground.

Yahaira’s eyes are swollen from crying & I can tell she is worried

that our relationship will be another thing we need to mourn & bury.

Sometimes, I look at her & it hits me that she is the only person who can understand what I feel, but she is also at the root of the hurt I’m feeling.

Her mother barely looked at me the whole day, & I know I’ll have to go through with my plan.

I am seventeen today.

Yahaira tells me she is going to sleep.

Her mother & Tia have already retired to the room they are sharing.

Her mother looked bewildered all day,

like a gallo who slept through the morning.

But before she goes to bed she reminds Yahaira she bought plane tickets for them to depart in three days.

I think about the leaving: how my sister was left money.

How my father’s wife was left with a valid marriage certificate.

& in a few days’ time, how they will both try to leave me.

It is a tiring thing to have to continue forgiving a father who is no longer here.





I go inside. I have a feeling Camino wants to be alone.

In the living room I stop still at the altar.

Mami & I have been ignoring the altar in the corner.

I don’t know much about Saints or ancestors, only the rumors of sacrificing chickens & how it all relates to voodoo.

I don’t even know if that’s what this is.

Camino called it something else,

& says the prayers & sacrifices

are important to having a relationship with the Saints, having a relationship with those who sweep the way, nudge open the doors for us to walk forward,

for us to walk through.

Camino or Tía has placed a small offering of rum & coconut chunks, roasted corn on a small plate.

I can’t imagine my father kneeling

or praying at the foot of this altar. & yet, I think about the silver coin he always carried in his pocket & how its twin sits on the altar here.

I think about how he would always say something about San Anthony, & isn’t that the statue by the door?

My father hid this part of himself tight inside his pockets, but it still slipped through the stitching I just never paid attention.

I carefully pick up the frame with his picture, lift the candle.

Mami has decided we will return home in three days.

Taped to the back of Papi’s frame is an envelope of money.