THE ADOPTION
1.
Begin again, the coatimundi whispered. He was real high up in the tree. He, embraced and therefore content, was doing his coatimundi job (which was to be a coatimundi). He rustled a little and went, and voíla, it was another morning for me, ya está.
2.
In the airport, spinning back to where I was born, the people pushed and drank the coffee from the coffee shops and not the fields as I had done many mornings before. I sipped to relax my beloved mind, as it was a sacred gift from the sacred farmer man. They drank to continue their lives, now a necessary tube medicine to combat those scary scary clocks, the artificial demons of their minds, and the real demons of their homes. El tiempo se mata, the old man would say to me, back home. Once again, maybe he’d lean in for good measure: El Tiempo se mata.
Once, a little long ago, during a silent workshift, I confessed my plans to an oddball’s ear, and the face of the oddball turned up to wink at me, knowingly, lovingly, with an oddball eye. Now I think on that moment, older and wiser. Was he ever really an oddball?
3.
My aunt is pretty and pale as she unconsciously clutches her wine and asks too, too many questions. She wants me to speak and spill the stories of supposed adventure, danger, and overly bright colors like her big screen and new tv. But what I talk of is not what I feel and what I feel is not what I talk of. My heart which would do the authentic crying and laughing, I did not pack but left in the place it belongs, many many miles away from this party I do not comprehend and never have. No comprendo, soy gringa. And I maybe never will, but this is good now because where I lose a friend here I find an amigo allá. I rush to the bathroom and in the mirror, my mascara runs down south. I smile, for how sweet it is to know me esperan cuando termine la fiesta.
4.
Today I will go to another party. But it is a different sort of party. A coffee party, you know? The kind my fellow females will do, unerred, social? God, I so want to see you again, let us get coffee! And I, I’m not cien por ciento against this and so I gaze away at my paper cup, because secretly, sipping coffee makes me miss coffee. But this found blessing, this life of mine is also a curse because now I, the blessed one, must now tell the others all about it! They giggle pleasantly and unpleasantly. And I- I want to- but oh, all there is to tell is of green hills fluffy great pink clouds weird delicious smells and the sweltering, stifling sun blazing down on my crackled skin as if to say: Oh, I am so sorry, my dear but this is life. Aquí respiramos lucha, you know. And I, gazing back up at the sun, say: Blaze on, I would rather feel this than nothing, thank you. No, no, there is nothing to say, genuinely. I cannot talk of Inéz who supported me when I sprained my ankle, my pain and hobbling versus her steady smile. Nor talk of the ancient woman, holding my hands in her own and looking her eyes into mine to say: Nunca debe olvidar de dónde viene, and I say lo sé, it’s why I’m here now, grandmother. I most certainly do not speak of those black eyes I see every night before falling asleep, no. I cannot, for they will not understand so much here and now. Yes, those who cause me to clench my fist during the time of politics, they will see something else, before I open my boca, they will always see something else. ?Siempre? I sudder, and I feel a little bit of the dolor everyday.
5.
But I went barefoot because it is good to embrace the pure of heart and even better to live in it. Our children go barefoot, they say, so I will too. I turn. I hope no one copies me. If they do obey my stride, following my naked footsteps because maybe the cameraman will be here, then who will forgive them? The Lord or the Latinos? I think the Lord first, the Latinos will a little later, when they have gone back, back, back to New YorkUtahIdaho. I sigh, for it is another thing to explain and not explain. I put my shoes back on, to wait, wait, wait, until the inexperienced go home.
For the restaurants of tex-mex, those stone palaces wrapped up in stolen Mexican color and sound will always be there. But I do not use such strong language around the conocidos. My voice will threaten security and diminish that unmentionable social status, the food of my fathers. And so I have kept my cool, for many months and now a few years, years which have grown me like a planta de café and now have things to speak to me. And I will listen and keep silent when needed, for who I am is now the gift I have made to the years and the love given to me.
6.
At times she wraps me up so tight I cannot stir as if to stroke my head and mumble: “Forget it all. Forget it all. It is long gone now, my dear, forget it all.”
7.
“Begin again.” The coatimundi whispered.
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