Another sunny day on
Baker Ave. Amongst the hostas, many
caterpillars chew holes, ignore
dandelions, & grow plumper by the hour.
Every day has been soft except for this one. This morning, my
father puts my mother in a chokehold.
Golden sunlight streaks across her contorted face.
How does he not realize I will remember this for the rest of my life?
I am six years old & the only power I have is to watch & remember & know
just how much damage sharing the memory will bring. His lips, close enough to
kiss her, instead shout obscenities.
Last year we had our final family celebration, full of
Mexican vibrance, a piñata & pastel & an embroidered Mayan dress.
Now, all the neighbors
on our street watch the
police arrive at our house.
Quietly take note of another broken family, another
reason to let all the kids on the block form their own
social support groups.
The tulips my father planted are blooming. I hold one
underwater in the backyard kiddie pool, the petals
vermilion, &
wait for the police to leave. I think when I’m an adult, I’ll take
Xanax even when I don’t need it, & I’ll feel like the
yellow buttercups all over New York in summer.
Zero clues as to when that will be.
Mia Aguilera earned her MFA from Northern Arizona University. Her work has appeared in perhappened mag, Ghost City Review, and River Teeth’s “Beautiful Things” column. When she is not writing, she spends her time working at an independent bookstore in New York City.
Leave a Reply