sjsprWriting

There are questions that I need to ask you. Questions that catch in my throat, smother me. Questions that haunt the silence between us. I should ask, I should have, but this is harder than I imagined. I think I do not want your answers. Not really.

Did she abandon you?

Funny how in 17 years, we can dance around issues with never getting to the main question.

How did you go from one mother to the other?

But abuelita is abuelita and we do not talk about this.

-x-

You don’t like cigarettes and yelling and people being rude.

You were the girl who sat in the back, hair always braided, an exercise in quiet.

But you grew into the woman whose glare cuts glass, who stands taller than her stature, who frightens others into obedience. You demand the very best that someone can give and I want to know how you came to be.

There are bits and pieces that I know. An absent father. Two mothers. A husband and a broken relationship. A daughter. A mother who slowly lost her mind. A growing girl. A family that moved away. A mother who didn’t even say goodbye. A second husband who lied.

I know the way the pieces fit but it seems like I’m missing a few. I want to ask you to open your palm and show them to me. But you have been keeping them tight in your fist for a reason.

And I am afraid to ask.