Swallowed in the Sea
by rosangelica.
Two of my mother's crystal wine goblets paraded in my purse. One glass had a forest green tint, the other was purple. Stumbling out of our co-op apartment, I assured myself that the goblets were fine inside of their winter scarf cucoon with paper towel shoved down their throats.
"For you, I'd wait til kingdom come."
"Strange how your honesty has bought you shame."
"Shame? More like the finest vagina. Women."
"We all have our vices man. That's one for you."
"Yeah, and yours happens to be pretending that you don't have any."
He threw up that night, inside of the train station. People were indeed, on the platform. Piers are made for running and sightseeing, not exactly drinking wine out of your mom's wine goblets. They will break.
"You'll understand, arbitraria. All these years spent, slaving for you to go to Catholic school. You haven't learned anything with your weird friends. No veo a ninguna otra nina con su pelo asi. Pareces a una pata. You live the life of an arbitrary girl.
One day you'll look back on how you treated me and you won't be able to stop crying. I'll grow old and your brother will bee the only one here. You'll be vacilando while I rot on my death bed and wonder why I waited 12 years to have another child. Sige con esa marijuana."
When you are young, you forget the discomfort of sand. You don't know luxury; you don't know time. As you get older, you forget the comfort of your mother's arms, especially if she didn't hug you.
My knees remember the sharp ridges of rice grains. Sand probably feels the same way. Sort of like my mother's heel on that mouse's tail. Do you remember that? We do.
Remember that one cousin who films all of our events? Hopeless, Hip-Hop romantic that can't let go. I'll describe his 80's haircut, include some references that I won't relate to, and when you ask him what my embrace feels like, he won't remember. We won't.
