If you look at her eyes long enough, you'll find that they are as brown as burnt cocoa. More traditional looking than his are. His are the color of avaricous ravens- so black that he may have been a gypsy's child. Ever since they were kids, she avoided looking directly at those eyes because they made her feel uneasy. Exposed, somehow.
It is hard to tell who's older. Circumstances have closed over the yawning years that were previously so evident in their differing demeanors.
He is sitting on their blue couch, watching music videos. The blankness of his expression surprises her. She wants to embrace him but she knows that this gesture may be too abrupt, may be silently shunned.
She remembers a rollercoaster ride in Ocean Park 12 years ago. She and Rita, a cousin from Toronto, took an extra spin because the ride felt so delicious the first time. She found him waiting for her, willfully indulging in fits of hysteria, "That was dangerous! That was dangerous! That was dangerous!"
Seven years old. She always thought that that was a bit too early for him to ascertain that loss of any kind will leave him with nothing. His screams then were their first real harbingers.
They were once two peas in a pod. They traipsed around the house in their cheap sandos and shorts, pretending to be twins (blissfully genderless).
He does not remember this. Their differences are now white cotton cloths, wiping out any evidence of happy disasters.
The fights really started when she was already in college. They would begin with something as unimportant as socks. Then they would move on to shoes. Then to the way he wore them and left them lying on the floor. Why was he so irresponsible? she'd say. Why'd she care? he’d retort.
Hugs lessened. The sound of doors slamming served as commas inserted between unresolved arguements.They tore their livers out.
It was years before he touched her or spoke to her again.
She remembers that night clearly.
He just came from the hospital where their father was confined. It was two in the morning when he returned. He didn't even need to let himself in. She was already by the gate, watching him. He grabbed her wrists and whispered, "Be strong. Be strong. Be strong." She listened to the teeming urgency corrupting his usually nondescript speech. His words were open graves. His hands, atonements that came a tad too late.
They lost their father to a myriad of complications brought about by diabetes. They spent his birthday, three days after the burial, eating Chinese takeout next to their father's grave.
They were mute witnesses to their mother’s death a year later. The same fervent whisper, "Be strong. Be strong. Be strong."
"For whom?" she replies.
They sit on a wooden bench outside the funeral home. He holds her hand and says, " Do not leave me."
"Where else would I go?" She is surprised by her bitterness. She averts her eyes and asks him what he wants to have for dinner.
He must not know how much she wants to keep running.
She looks at him now and sees stubbles on his chin. He is 19 going on 35. For the thousandth time, she shrugs off the feeling of helplessness.
He stands up and looks out the window. He stares at the falling rain for a while, lost in his gypsy thoughts. She looks at him, wanting to apologize for things that can and will always stand between them.
"The weather's changing" he says.
It is hard to tell who's older. Circumstances have closed over the yawning years that were previously so evident in their differing demeanors.
He is sitting on their blue couch, watching music videos. The blankness of his expression surprises her. She wants to embrace him but she knows that this gesture may be too abrupt, may be silently shunned.
She remembers a rollercoaster ride in Ocean Park 12 years ago. She and Rita, a cousin from Toronto, took an extra spin because the ride felt so delicious the first time. She found him waiting for her, willfully indulging in fits of hysteria, "That was dangerous! That was dangerous! That was dangerous!"
Seven years old. She always thought that that was a bit too early for him to ascertain that loss of any kind will leave him with nothing. His screams then were their first real harbingers.
They were once two peas in a pod. They traipsed around the house in their cheap sandos and shorts, pretending to be twins (blissfully genderless).
He does not remember this. Their differences are now white cotton cloths, wiping out any evidence of happy disasters.
The fights really started when she was already in college. They would begin with something as unimportant as socks. Then they would move on to shoes. Then to the way he wore them and left them lying on the floor. Why was he so irresponsible? she'd say. Why'd she care? he’d retort.
Hugs lessened. The sound of doors slamming served as commas inserted between unresolved arguements.They tore their livers out.
It was years before he touched her or spoke to her again.
She remembers that night clearly.
He just came from the hospital where their father was confined. It was two in the morning when he returned. He didn't even need to let himself in. She was already by the gate, watching him. He grabbed her wrists and whispered, "Be strong. Be strong. Be strong." She listened to the teeming urgency corrupting his usually nondescript speech. His words were open graves. His hands, atonements that came a tad too late.
They lost their father to a myriad of complications brought about by diabetes. They spent his birthday, three days after the burial, eating Chinese takeout next to their father's grave.
They were mute witnesses to their mother’s death a year later. The same fervent whisper, "Be strong. Be strong. Be strong."
"For whom?" she replies.
They sit on a wooden bench outside the funeral home. He holds her hand and says, " Do not leave me."
"Where else would I go?" She is surprised by her bitterness. She averts her eyes and asks him what he wants to have for dinner.
He must not know how much she wants to keep running.
She looks at him now and sees stubbles on his chin. He is 19 going on 35. For the thousandth time, she shrugs off the feeling of helplessness.
He stands up and looks out the window. He stares at the falling rain for a while, lost in his gypsy thoughts. She looks at him, wanting to apologize for things that can and will always stand between them.
"The weather's changing" he says.
She nods and stands beside him. The raindrops fall, making puddles. They remember when they used to run around in the rain. They smile and shake their heads, happy with the silence. Content that they are both home.
1 comment:
muy bien, Anita.
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