I long for her young heart again.
That sweet, cured sensitivity to the battered bruises of my mother’s needs.
The want to save the soul of my dead guinea pig that lay on its back or my father’s lingering Modelo breath that was earlier spat on the concrete floor. I laid on my bed in that blue-flowered blanket hoping for buttered toast and not those dry, severely under-seasoned pork chops. But mom would seldom prevail.
I still yearn for those summer afternoons drenched in iced lemonade as I watch the dryer tumble my underwear, white-knuckling the tip of the white ceramic as I stretch my legs. I’d rot in curiosity while sifting through dead Canna-Lilly beds in the backyard. I’d come back inside with fly and ticks and mom would rail something mad.
There’s a pain in dreaming of who I used to be.
Who I’ve met.
Where I’ve gone.
What I have left to do.