My Sorry Song

Calla Lillies

I’m sorry…

…that I couldn’t stay.

…that he had to have his say.

…that no one understood,

that I had to run away.

I’m sorry…

…I never told you.

…I never turned him in.

…I didn’t know the difference,

of letting someone in.

I’m sorry…

…that now you’re suffering.

…that no one there is buffering.

…that now you understand,

the excuses and the lying.

I’m sorry…

…I wasn’t stronger.

…I couldn’t hold your hand.

…I needed to find my own way,

back to never never land.  

I’m sorry…

…that now I’m gone.

…that I can’t sing you the song,

that kept you safe,

from all this wrong.

And I’m sorry…

…I just couldn’t go on.  

Be strong,

my little one. 

The Last Purse

I learned a valuable lesson that October day. I was 11 years old and it was the first and last day that I carried a purse.

I was never one for purses, I was more of a tom-boy kinda kid, but when my grandma got me one for Christmas and I had a couple dollars saved up in allowance, I thought – you know what, basketball shorts don’t have pockets, this purse can hold all my stuff. Yes, all my stuff. My $4.82, my cherry chap stick, a pack of Wrigley’s Big Red gum, a home-made scrunchy my mom had made me, and one of those annoying bouncy balls you could buy for 25₵, oh, and a toothpick. I didn’t even have a Walkman yet. If there is one thing certain about me, it’s that I was a 90s kid. 

But I remember that day very clearly. Sitting at the pizzeria, eating pepperoni pizza with my mom and grandma and probably a few cousins – the cousins were always around. I had to go to the bathroom, and, as I was old enough, I could go by myself. I asked my mom to watch my purse – with all its valuable contents – and headed to the back of the restaurant. 

When I came back, I sat down and finished eating my pizza. I was young, it was the first day that I had ever taken a purse anywhere, and so, I didn’t notice that it was missing until we were getting ready to leave the restaurant. I think my grandma had given me a dollar to put in my brand-new wallet, the one that matched my purse, but when I went to add my dollar to my fortune, the purse was gone. 

I looked everywhere; under the table, behind my brother, in the bathroom – I hadn’t taken it in there, had I? – and finally I remembered, I had asked my mom to watch it for me. 

“Where’s my purse, mom?”

“I don’t know. You shouldn’t have left it on the table. No one is responsible for your stuff but you.”

I was upset, my savings of $4.82 had dropped significantly. Down to $1 dollar to be exact. I was mad too, my mom was supposed to watch my purse for me and she didn’t. Or so I thought. 

Crying and throwing hissy fits was not my thing; I wasn’t really “that kind of girl.” I didn’t react to things like that, I tended to bottle things up inside and fester. I loved festering. All your emotions just build and build inside of you until they are so strong that they take over you and you don’t know what you’re capable of. It was exciting, exhilarating, crazy, and fun. 

But more than that, I was really mad at my mom. 

Right before we got home, my mom took my purse out of her backpack and handed it to me. 

“Here’s your purse. Never ask anyone to take care of your things for you, they are your responsibility and no one is going to care about your stuff as much as you do.”

I took the purse and stared at my mom. Really? I couldn’t even ask my mom to watch my stuff? 

I learned two things that day. 

1. I hate purses.
2. You can’t trust anyone. Not even your mom. 

Parejas repartidas

A mí me encantan los calcetines nuevos y mi familia lo sabe, por eso me regalan calcetines cada Navidad. No es un regalo malo, ni un regalo “práctico” como dice la tía Dulce cada año cuando les regala calcetines a todos. Ellos no son unos aficionados de los calcetines como yo. Les molesta mucho recibirlos y hasta yo sospecho que es porque ella es tacaña.

Un año mi padre me compró unos calcetines mix-match, muy bonitos, de colores vibrantes, que hacían juego, pero no eran iguales. No había pares de calcetines, había pesadillas de dos en dos. Pero claro, como buena hija quería dar gusto a mi padre y que no me creía malagradecida me los puse. No podía dejar de pensar en que mis calcetines no eran iguales, estaban separados, y sus parejas estaban en otras cajas, en otros pies, en otro lugar ajeno.

Los que me encontraron muerta, me criticaban por ser tan desorganizada y llevar calcetines mix-match, como una típica mujer estadounidense.

Les miro desde el cielo y me pregunto si mi padre se arrepentirá de haberme comprado esos calcetines que me llevaron a esa muerte inesperada. Si no hubiera estado pensando en esos calcetines, a lo mejor, no hubiera cruzado la calle así, sin mirar, pensando en dónde podría estar la pareja de mi calcetín derecho y si se estaban conviviendo bien los dos calcetines impares, o si extrañaban mucho a sus parejas o si se odiaban como yo los odiaba.

Yo no me arrepiento de haber hecho feliz a mi padre ese año. De todos modos, él estará aquí conmigo muy pronto, ya que, justo la mañana que morí, le regalé unas herramientas muy bonitas, un trinquete del sistema imperial y unos sockets del sistema métrico.

dedicado a Raquel Castro