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Anger
Burns. As usual, I don’t remember many details clearly. It was a normal school day. My sister and I used to go to school to pick up lunch and bring it back. On the way, we’d stop by a tree always heavy with zapotes, the most delicious fruit at the time. My mom tells me…
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Wife
I was raised by nuns. They called it the Christian Home, built back in 1918 by Father José Daniel Carmona to shelter lost girls who’d had their families taken from them. It was a safe haven, or so they said—a place meant to catch the ones drifting too close to the edges. First, it was…
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Birth
I was consumed by jealousy. All the other mothers were pacing, holding their big bellies, happily anticipating their turns to go into labor. Not me. I was scanning the room, searching for someone who might be more miserable than I was. Surely, I wasn’t the only one. Then I saw her—a girl who looked about…
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Motherhood
Sucks I wanted to say this in Spanish, but it just didn’t have the same je ne sais quoi I was looking for. The power, the anger, the polite American way of saying something isn’t nice. And that’s motherhood—a not-so-nice way of doing life that eats you up slowly. It crawls under your skin so…
Teta Loca 