He Deserves to Live
This is what I know today—my Uncle Jose is finally being treated right.
As a human.
He’s not from here. He came from Zacatecas when he was young.
He has no insurance.
His failing kidneys didn’t seem to matter.
Took five diabetic attacks before a doctor even glanced at him.
It didn’t matter that he’s a dad or a father figure to me, his niece.
No money—they overlook you.
No insurance—you might as well be invisible.
I remember the day before my uncle’s operation.
They were going to move the tubes for his dialysis treatment into his arm.
The left arm just like his mom had it.
I could see the fear masked behind his eyes.
He tried to keep it together but I could tell he was falling apart.
His eyes are now swallowed by dark around them.
His once tanned skin is now pale and colorless.
And although he laughs, I can hear the breaths of pain hidden between those
moments of joy.
He woke.
Weeks had passed.
Now he has a longer chance of raising his kids, of seeing them grow up.
My Uncle Jose deserves to live.
Dialysis.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
He’ll be okay.
I hope.
As long as they see him still.
As long as they view him as human.
Actually as long as they can turn a profit.
A Father’s Betrayal
I hate my father’s choices.
I can’t wrap my mind around why he doesn’t care.
Beer before his children.
He’s consumed by it; it’s who he is.
“I was born an alcoholic, an alcoholic I will die,” he says.
It’s engraved in my mind.
That drunk man who replaced my father.
His words slur, his eyes are bloodshot.
He’s sitting in the dark, exhausted from the fight he had with my mom.
He calls for me.
“Vero ven.” (“Vero, come.”)
“Que quieres?” (“What do you want?”) , tears of anger burn my cheeks.
“Ya no me quieres?” (“You don’t love me anymore?”)
“Ya me canse, ya no lo puedo hacer. Tu hijo ya tiene miedo que te van ha encontrar en la calle, muerto!”
(I’m tired, I can’t do this. Your own son is afraid they’ll find you dead in the streets.”)
He laughs.
I can smell the beer from where I stand.
I kneel at his feet.
My voice cracking.
I manage to get these words out.
“Ya basta, por favor déjà de tomar!” (“Just stop, please stop drinking!”)
Silence so heavy it weighs me down, fills the room.
Until I hear him chuckle.
And within a blink of an eye, I had no father.
He became just a person, one who left a daughter, confused. Alone.
I don’t get it.
I was daddy’s little girl.
Now I’m exhausted from fighting for him to change.
I give up.
Beer has possessed him.
While resentment and hurt have taken over my thoughts.
“I still love you,” he says over the phone.
Then prove it, I repeat in my head.
Please.
In Her Arms
The house I lived in for fifteen years is not my home.
My home is not where I live, or where I cook. My home is my mother. Wherever she is, that’s home to me.
Many may consider it a cliché, but to me it’s completely different. Around two years ago I lost close to all my family I grew up with. It was just another day when my grandma, godfather and his wife decided to gang up on my mom because my grandma made up a lie, saying that my mom and grandpa were always against her and always bad mouthing the family. My godfather ended up threatening my mom, and his wife told us to leave the house. We were kicked out of the house we lived in and in just a week had to find a new place to live. When we did, we had no one to rely on, no one to help us out.
At that point in time I thought my whole world was falling apart. That’s when I crawled into bed next to my mom and lay my head on her stomach. She said, “What’s wrong, my munchichi?”
I shook my head side to side.
Then she put her arm around me and squeezed, “I’m sorry, it’s my fault we have no one.”
I could hear her breathing getting tighter. I hugged her with one arm and said, “But there’s no reason to be sorry. We have each other and that’s all I need.”
She said, “I love you.”
I stayed there for a while longer. I could feel her stomach moving with every breath she took.
At that moment nothing could go wrong. I had everything I ever needed right there, laying my head on her stomach. And that’s when it hit me, I’ve never felt so at home anywhere else--not even in the place I lived for most of my life.
Being with my mom is where I felt safe, where I feel comfortable, like I could breathe again for the first time. It didn’t matter if I had no eyeliner on or if my family disowned me. Whenever I was with her I could be myself without being afraid.
When I thought I’d lost it all is when I discovered my home all over again.
