She tells me she woke up drenched in sweat and paranoia
The El Paso heat unforgiving on her chest
The silhouette of a stranger eclipsed the moonlight shining in the open window.
He was a soldier, at ease, looking down at her.
I am tucked away in my crib.
Dreaming whatever babies dream of,
Untouched.
From around the corner she heard him growl,
"Nothing will happen to your baby if you do what I say."
18 years ago a man who stood for our country stood inside my house.
18 years ago a man cut our electricity, slid in through our door ---
18 years ago I was the only witness to my mother's rape.
She tells me this while we are lying in bed
Still, she cocoons me with her arms as her veins unravel.
I am sweating with shame that my infant body couldn’t fight for her, or with her.
I am consumed with guilt for my vulnerability
But I am silent.
I am shaking
And I watch the gold fade from my mother as she breaks down from the retelling.
I see the funeral procession of a different future in her iris's
Her body is glass I'm afraid one touch will shatter
Her body was my body the night that time was not an issue
For the darkness that painted my house
I often wonder if he touched my cheek
Or admired the way my baby hair tangled itself into a choking mess
I wonder if he reminisced about raising his own children watching her take care of me when he allowed it
My piercing cries still not loud enough to alert the neighbors
I wonder if my mother once blamed me as much as I blame myself now
The only thing keeping her from running suckled on her breast as evil, out of his uniform, watched
Her pillow is soaked but I can’t tell with whose tears as
She takes me to the weeks before the trial,
There was a call-
She knew before they told her that they found him with a noose around his neck strung tighter than his moral standards
Leaving behind his wife
And fellow soldiers
And two kids
Stealing with him the shadow of my could-have-been brother, or sister.
It is her turn to cry as she hunches into the raw embodiment of love
I realize now why we always use the buddy system.
Why grandma would never let us go to the bathroom in public alone
I understand why I was conditioned to check on my little sister at night
Hoping she was still there
Hoping she was still breathing
I have stopped questioning my first instinct to cross the street when someone is behind me
Or to lock the doors as soon as I get in the car
I understand why there is a day in August that my mom's body is cement that she can't lift out of bed
Now I know why my dad's vowels are always rounded,
Like he is holding pills on his tongue
Because he doesn't know how to deal with a woman whose body has been made a tomb
This man took just about everything from my mom.
Her body.
A baby.
Her faith in humanity.
But one thing he left in the shadows of our house
Was the intimate, twisted bond her and I have today.
As women.
She is the lace to my converse, I see parts of her weaving in and out of me
On bad days, she will lie tangled up in knots
But know that I will come along to untie her feelings of emptiness
I will stitch her to myself and we will brave this world once again
Because it's been that way for 18 years.
