. It turned out that she spotted me in the picture, but also spotted me for a Big Mac combo at McDonalds one day, and I promised to pay her back. But days went on, though four out of five days I had money in my pocket, it seemed like the days she reminded me to pay her, were weirdly on the exact days I had no money.
Becoming a mother has divided my body in portions, passing out small pieces at a time to my child, husband and self. I’ve been stretched to a capacity I formerly did not think possible and from there, have to learn to surrender my control of the unknown.
When my husband died, it was the ultimate rejection. I’d never felt so desperate, never craved something so badly before. At first, I hardly left my house. I drank wine in my bed every night, straight from the bottle, cried myself to sleep watching back-to-back episodes of Lost, woke next to those bottles, empty, head spinning, nausea and guilt consuming
My mother’s pinky toe is her favorite. The nail never grows longer than a quarter inch. She would sit there not in plain view but off to the side of the room.
She recounted our conversation and added, “It’s a shame that someone so smart and talented would decide not to college. I wonder what might change her mind.” I kept reading it over and over. A famous columnist had written about me. Why did she care?
Watching someone you love die is…for lack of a better term…fucked up. When my son died, it was sudden. I found him and it was already over. With my mother I am watching her slowly turn the corner to whatever is next.
I found myself lying on the carpeted floor, feeling as if my life was being sucked dry by its cleverness. It was in these moments that I thought my only way out was to somehow destroy myself to end the suffocating pain and trauma in my body. But I couldn’t move
I thanked my host profusely and tried to offer her money for the impromptu visit. As soon as I held out the cash I felt like a fat cat gringa buying memories that weren’t quite mine. The only relatives I had left in Cuba were now under tombstones at Guanabacoa cemetery.
A few nights ago, I had an anxiety attack, right in the front seat of my boyfriend’s truck. It wasn’t a particularly crazy night on the road; we were going to dinner, and the weather was decent. And yet, I was suddenly struck with a heart-racing, pins-and-needles at the back of my neck, panicky feeling that I’ve now come to realize is what an anxiety attack feels like to me.
Maybe he touched my hair, or my waist, maybe he just reached straight under my shirt, all I knew was that suddenly my body was tight and alert, with a buzzing charge flowing out in all directions from my crotch.
