Whoa! I’m back!
It’s been a rough semester, and I haven’t had the time to blog until now, so I’ll try to compensate this unplanned hiatus by blogging more frequently than normal during the break.
Back when I had free time, I used to write short stories in my free time. I didn’t develop them well enough, but here’s to it… I just hope a future English professor doesn’t find this!
Breakfast / Desayuno
Right before the microwave oven, who had a severe case of arthritis, popped out my cinnamon Pop Tarts, my older brother walked into our kitchen. We could barely fit in the closet-sized room–it was meant for three pairs of shoes, not people. A single lightbulb hanging down on a single copper wire flickered as we walked past each other in silence, already accustomed to bumping our heads. He grabbed a slice of pound cake. Seizing his weary, wrinkly backpack from the ground, Pedro startled it from its easy sleep and ran off to the high school two blocks down the street. “Don’t be like your hermano when you grow up,” my mother used to say. “Not even a word to his own mother todos los días!”
That day I had just started second grade. They said that I was the smartest one in my family, destined for great things outside of our dingy subdivision in East Harlem. They said that I wouldn’t have to beg the supermarket ladies to let us use our expired food stamps or eat Uncle Ben’s rice and canned beans for three weeks straight or have to be late to work because the buses weren’t running on time. With this hope, after brushing my teeth and putting on my uniform, I let mi mamá walk me to school.
“No, mom. I’m already late!”
Now it was tenth grade. With much difficulty, I had tested into Stuyvesant High, some two hours away by subway. I rattled my way around the box for the last Pop Tart, still in its shiny wrapper napping comfortably, and gripped my backpack before slamming the door shut and hopping down the stairs two at a time, all while peeling away the wrapper and voraciously biting into the cinnamon filling. My mother, with a vacant look in her eyes, stared out the window onto our ever-so-familiar 132nd Street we knew and loved. Facing away from me, she always held her daily companion, a mug of watery coffee, and said not a single word for four years as I did this todos los días.
“Hey, wanna grab a bite at the commons area?”
“Sure.” I shut my Macbook and went downstairs.
Maneuvering through the chairs pulled out, I swiftly headed toward the usual line, now snaking around the breakfast nook. It was a typical Saturday morning. Pajamas replaced the usual jeans and sweatshirts. Thick gusts of syrup and jelly circulated the room, and the old-fashioned heater in the middle smiled with his orange glow.
“The usual, Marcia?”
It was then that I noticed a new offering. Hiding in the very back of the kitchen, I could barely make out the blue box, coyly tucked behind some neon-green Nutri-grain bars. There he was–cinnamon pop tarts. My whole childhood, with Pedro and mi mamá and that pesky light bulb, flashed before my eyes.
“I’d like those pop-tarts, please.”
That night I called my mother for the first time. After a short pause, I spoke my first “hola” since I started college. My heart fluttered when I heard the tears streaming down her worn face, the wrinkles carved in stone now dancing in delight, smiling at the crackling sound of my familiar voice.
“Te extraño, hija.”
It’s been three months since my mom moved to Florida, twenty since I graduated from college. When I got the word that she was nearing her end, I flew down to Miami immediately.
My flight was delayed for three hours, and when I got to Miami, my phone experienced the worst seizures in its life, all from phone calls from family members worried sick.
Some time later, I rush into her room straight out of a cab. The driver’s still yelling at me, insisting that I give him a tip.
She says nothing, her face a crossword of multifarious expressions and her body a raisin in the sun, and slowly lifts her hand up to reach for a box of dulce de leche Pop Tarts on top of her drawer. I carefully cut open the wrapper and place them into a brand-new microwave oven Pedro bought her the other day, just like how mi mamá tucked me into bed each night.
After a suspenseful few minutes, the oven, in its last call to duty, enthusiastically shouts out, “Ding!” My mother, hands shaking with every inch closer to the radiating oven, lifts out of that time machine the pastries of my long-gone years. Carefully, the capsules glide onto the small table next to the dense forest of translucent orange medication bottles. The brilliant rising sun beams down into my mother’s room, the effervescent scarlet and honey and fire heralding a new era.
Finally, with one last breath of air and a slight smile, my mother set her hands on her laps and forcefully whispers, “Hija, cómetela!”
I couldn’t help but smile as well.