(One in a series of familia remembrances.)
My Tia Mary was missing
half a brazo.
There was nada
beneath the left elbow
that led to a mano.
But that didn’t keep her
from holding tight
to a Budweiser
at every familia fiesta,
or shouting “Bulla!”
(my nickname)
at the top of her lungs
across the party.
Even with only
half an arm
she’d give big hugs
and sloppy cheek besos
that smelled of beer
and cigarettes
and pan dulce.
She didn’t need
that missing forearm
to sit her sobrinos down
in her cocina
and fill us with tacos
and burgers
and crazy cuentos
about our loca familia.
She’d slap the table
with her only hand
and cackle
while revealing
between sips
of cerveza
all the hidden history,
all the forbidden chisme.
“You almost didn’t happen!
Your papá went to an office party
and got drunker than a skunk!
Someone stuck him in a taxi
and sent him home
without his pants!
Your Tio Rafael hauled him
up to the spare bed.
In the morning
your mamá shouted,
‘I’ll never marry you!’
at his hungover head!
Ha!
You almost didn’t happen!”
Slap slap slap!
on the formica mesa.
My Tia Mary was missing
half a brazo
but that didn’t keep her
from reaching out
one cigarette smokey afternoon
to my poetic quietude.
“I always wanted
to be a painter,”
she confided.
“When I see you write
I think…”
“Ay, tia, you could do it!”
I promised her,
but she laughed,
sin felicidad,
sin esperanza.
“You’re young and dumb, mijo,
pero I’m just
an old mexicana mujer
who didn’t get to choose.”
My Tia Mary was missing
half a brazo,
there was nothing
beyond the left elbow
that led to a mano.
But was it there
in that nada
that she kept
her secret sueños?
There in that brazo
that only she
could see
where she went
to dream
the pinturas
and aventuras
of one hidden woman
and her soltera mano?
