Where Do We Go From Here? by: Laura Gonzalez, Mixed Media, 2019
So I Guess Cancer is a Thing
So I guess cancer is a thing. I still wonder how I could have been so naïve to its commonplace existence. You know, when it’s diagnosed, it actually doesn’t happen like it does in movies. For us, it started off with a CT scan, then an MRI scan, and when they finally decided they had to open up the skull, they removed the tumor, sliced it, and sent one of those slices off for examination. “We’ll see you in 10 days,” they say, sympathetically. Just like that.
During those 10 days, you keep it cool. You just know the tumor is going to be benign. They’ll tell you it was a random growth and after she heals from the surgery, everything will return to how it was. You don’t allow your mind to go the other way. There’s no point. No point in worrying about what hasn’t been said. 10 days later you show up, and sign in as if you’re at your annual checkup. In a way, that’s what it feels like because you just know it’s all going to come to pass. You smile at the receptionist, thank her for checking you in. Smile at the nurse as she takes you to a room and hands you an envelope. “Don’t open it until after the doctor has spoken to you.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? After that, the memories move in slow motion. Brain Cancer. Glioblastoma. 11-15 month life expectancy. Personality changes. Seizures. Sleepiness.
Against my better judgment, I’ve Googled glioblastoma over and over again. Sometimes just for the heck of it because I want to make sure I still remember the facts clearly. The results are the same, every single time. Some cancers are so rare that there are only about two hundred thousand cases per year in the U.S. Two hundred thousand. What constitutes something being rare? I wonder if the other 199,999 families dealing with this, this year, wonder that too. Rare are albino alligators or that last white, male rhino that just died last year. This doesn’t feel rare at all. It feels…real.
You know what SHOULD be “rare”? Rare should be having to see your mother’s reflection as she sees her neatly stitched, baseball resembling, blood-crusted scar and buzz cut for the first time. Seeing her briefly look in the mirror and turn her head to get a better view of all that’s changed. Then looking away quickly for the fear of letting out more of her emotions than she cares to. Rare should be having to squeeze your mom’s stomach like a burger, daily, in your hand while you inject her with medicine that’s supposed to prevent a clot. You know, she’s always hated needles, and now it’s you having to inflict this pain for what’s supposed to be the greater good. Every week there are more and more bruises of all different shades of black, purple, and green. Oh, but the bruises don’t stop there! Take a look at the insides of her arms. Of course, when undergoing radiation and chemotherapy you have to get your blood drawn weekly to make sure your white blood cell count is looking okay. Rare should be having to see your mom lying on the ground, seizing, as her body jerks as if her whole body is gasping for air, fighting against itself. I don’t even know if it’s fighting with or against her. Rare should be having to see your mother’s reflection as she sees herself, once again, neatly stitched, baseball resembling, blood-crusted scar, but this time, there wasn’t hair to have to shave off.
Do the other 199,999 families ever get used to this? Or are they like me and feel that every poke, every cut, every pill, every jerk, every doctor’s visit is like digging a knife deeper into a still very fresh wound? Despite that feeling, I’ve come to accept that I may lose my mom at a young age. I’m not even old enough to have wrinkles fully formed on my face. As I stop and stare at my daughter, I think about how just in her lifetime there have been two million people diagnosed with glioblastoma. Just 6 months ago we were living with her grama and granpa. Mi mami y mi papi. I can only assume that as we moved out of my parent’s house it never crossed her mind that we may be leaving one of them behind, possibly forever.
Now, though, I’d rather just focus on the soul that still remains within her and who my mom is, and always will be to me. My mom is strong. Always has been. I knew that the moment I was old enough to realize all that she left behind in her country, in order to take a chance at starting a family with the love of her life, in a new land that held many unknowns. I knew it when I was old enough to see the courage it took to show up for every single event your child was a part of at school, even if you had no idea what was being said. The humility it took to allow your child to translate the conversation with a teacher, because you wanted to be a good parent and be involved. She got her license to be a public accountant in Mexico, but here, that meant nothing, especially not as an undocumented resident. So humility it took once more to start cleaning houses, in order to help provide for your family. I don’t even like cleaning my own damn restroom.
This month marks 11 months since my mom was diagnosed. I’ll continue to hope and pray, along with the other 199,999 families in this country.
waking up next to a corpse beneath ground and realizing all this time you felt dead—you really were. it was just an illusion, and you’ve been released. you wonder where it all went wrong and who you really are, whose name is on your gravestone, and who’s with you. but all you get is rotting. and you rot and rot and rot. and nothing ever happens except for the bugs. oh, the bugs. you spare details. you try to scream and find your mouth is gone. you try to move and find your bones have finally been released from your essence. you are nothing but a corpse. and you got what you wanted, what you dreamt about on sundays. you find nothing really matters but the cycle of things: the birth, the growth, the existing, the suffering, the death, and the nothing. you wait to be born anew, to be something other than nothing. but what might be 15 minutes is an infinity when you are dead. and that’s it. just rotting into nothing. into your own private oblivion. like walking into water until your head is beneath the surface, but you just keep going. even when your body fails you, your mind keeps turning. when your brains and your guts are soup, you still exist. you still exist. you keep going, even when they pave over your grave; even when the last descendant dies, you keep going. until you reach for nothing and get nothing. you got what you wanted
Cigarette Skull by: Alexandra Williams, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Children’s Story
Aliens can teach us a lot about humanity. More than any human could, probably. We are our own blind spot, a cool spot on the face of the sun. A heat wave in the form of a poem. What we don’t know can’t hurt us. That is, as a collective, of course it can. As individuals, absolutely. Radiation is radiation, after all. I’m pretty sure the effects go more than skin deep.
Rotting fruit can tell us a lot about the human’s disgust reaction. Knee jerk, gag reflex. Some are more easily disturbed than others. This goes for socializing, too. Although the same argument could be made that we are all equally sensitive, just about different things. And some are better at hiding it, of course.
The radio told me that empathy is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I think I agree. In any case, I would rather live alone on an island than with any of the last four people who told me they loved me. Deception is the most beneficial skill for someone to have. I don’t say this as anyone who is particularly good. I do my best. We all do.
It’s hard, living, when words don’t mean anything anymore. Maybe they never did. I think of Holden Caulfield a lot. Not as much as when I was 16. If this were a post-apocalyptic world, I would be dead. Can’t even tell if that’s a good or bad thing. Can’t tell good or bad things apart, really. It’s such a fine line, and good for whom? For me? Is a thing good because it’s good for me? I wish I could say fuck everybody else but there are so many mes out there. I will tell my children this.
I may be self-absorbed, but it’s better than absorbing someone else. I tried that once or twice. It’s disgusting. They get into your pores. I had a lot of acne then. It may take months— years—to get them completely out. I have scars on my face and back from trying to excise the pus. They are still trying to wriggle their way back in under my skin. Especially at night. I wake up sweating them back out. I’m not sure it works.
Cigarette Skull by: Alexandra Williams, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Children’s Story
Aliens can teach us a lot about humanity. More than any human could, probably. We are our own blind spot, a cool spot on the face of the sun. A heat wave in the form of a poem. What we don’t know can’t hurt us. That is, as a collective, of course it can. As individuals, absolutely. Radiation is radiation, after all. I’m pretty sure the effects go more than skin deep.
Rotting fruit can tell us a lot about the human’s disgust reaction. Knee jerk, gag reflex. Some are more easily disturbed than others. This goes for socializing, too. Although the same argument could be made that we are all equally sensitive, just about different things. And some are better at hiding it, of course.
The radio told me that empathy is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I think I agree. In any case, I would rather live alone on an island than with any of the last four people who told me they loved me. Deception is the most beneficial skill for someone to have. I don’t say this as anyone who is particularly good. I do my best. We all do.
It’s hard, living, when words don’t mean anything anymore. Maybe they never did. I think of Holden Caulfield a lot. Not as much as when I was 16. If this were a post-apocalyptic world, I would be dead. Can’t even tell if that’s a good or bad thing. Can’t tell good or bad things apart, really. It’s such a fine line, and good for whom? For me? Is a thing good because it’s good for me? I wish I could say fuck everybody else but there are so many mes out there. I will tell my children this.
I may be self-absorbed, but it’s better than absorbing someone else. I tried that once or twice. It’s disgusting. They get into your pores. I had a lot of acne then. It may take months— years—to get them completely out. I have scars on my face and back from trying to excise the pus. They are still trying to wriggle their way back in under my skin. Especially at night. I wake up sweating them back out. I’m not sure it works.
Under the Bridge by: Jonathan Sencion, Digital Photo, 2018
The Last Metro
Nobody can remember exactly when it happened, but the earth was taking its last breath. Most people already fled to shuttles to escape the inevitable disaster. Others are with their families spending their final moments with the ones they love. But I, I am walking amongst a few other shadows in the train station. I don’t have a destination and neither do they. We are just here. Who knows the reason why they chose here–I certainly don’t–but we all know that there is nowhere else we’d rather be. The train pulls in. The driver seems familiar. Maybe I once knew him, but I don’t know anyone anymore.
The driver blew the whistle but nobody moved. There was nobody to move, not a soul to be found, not a whisper to be heard, and yet it was so crowded. Too many voices, too many people hurrying to get on board, too many times the ground shook with fire as screams exploded in my ears. Too many times did I not hear the laughter of a child, the song of a bird, the echo of my own voice. The whistle did not blow again. It had no need. Everyone was already on the train.
The driver lingered there staring at me with a confused look. The station around me was calm and disgusting, but also chaotic and beautiful. It was bustling with life and it was bathed in fire. It was clean as could be and it was littered with debris. The driver took one last glance knowing that this was the last ride. Just like the reflections that boarded his train, he had no destination. He did not wish to get away. He did not wish to be with his loved ones, but he dared not be alone. The train started moving and I watched it go. I stayed behind at the station and I watched from inside the train as I was left behind.
The train took off and it was going nowhere. None of the people on board were going to return. They’d be replaced with different faces or none at all. They’d look like me, but I’d never know them. They’d be fighting for their lives and longing for death. There was no destination for that train. Everyone knew it. Some spoke of it, but none protested it. Nowhere is where everyone wanted to be. It’s where I belonged.
I waited for the train to leave, but it wasn’t moving. It was already gone. It had gone to nowhere taking many with it, and leaving me behind. But why would the train have to leave? This was nowhere. There were no families, no friends, no dogs barking, no cats meowing, no birds chirping, no music, no singing, no laughter, no crying, no hate, no war, no noise, no silence. There was nothing, but did that make it nowhere? Perhaps not. Perhaps nowhere was a place with everything, a place where everyone stood but nobody could reach. Perhaps nowhere is where I stood.
An Out by: Gina Acampora, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
A Rainbow Bride
Everyone around me has dived into insanity and all the meanwhile I’ve spent my morning hiding in the wardrobe. Originally, I thought that maybe someone had overlooked it but then I saw it with my own two eyes—my wedding dress is missing. I get married in two hours and my wedding dress is missing.
I should be having a breakdown right now, right? Right?! I should at least be on the verge of one. Why aren’t I? That would be sensible of me. Yes, it would. But why aren’t I making sense? Why aren’t I disintegrating? It would be okay if I did. It would. It’s okay to be in shambles right now and yet I’m not. I’m nowhere near the point of breaking down. I know I should be. I’m just empty. I shouldn’t be empty. Today was supposed to be the happiest day. I was going to come into it as a giddy soon-to-be bride and then come out of it all lively and married with all the potential in the world. Now, none of that is going to happen. Honestly, I don’t think I even wanted it to.
I always wanted to get married. When I was young, I made a journal planning my dream wedding and now it’s a reality. Still, something isn’t right. I don’t understand. I went through the steps: I met a guy that I like, we went on great dates, a relationship blossomed, we got to know one another in every way possible, both parents approved, we planned out our lives together and we did it all while loving one another. Formulas are supposed to work. It’s why everyone goes through the steps. I did everything right yet something’s still off.
At that moment I hear a quiet tapping on the door and look up to see Ezra walking in. I know it’s Ezra by the old torn up shoes that still have my shitty drawings on the side. They make their way to me urgently and sit down back-to-back against my bare soles.
“We have your dress,” she exhales, “although it might not look the same as you remember it. There’s been some… alterations.” From then on begins the story of my wedding dress’s demise. Apparently, some of the younger kids thought the dress was a bit dull and made a plan to “liven it up.” It turns out they’re not enthusiasts about the white wedding tradition, so they got a hold of some brushes and painted the bottom in a vivid rainbow order.
As pretty as that may sound, a heavy sigh is released. I loved that dress. It was only when I wore it that I genuinely saw a bride staring back at me. All the other times I thought I was just pretending. Maybe it’s a good idea the kids ruined it. I wouldn’t allow matrimony to ruin it. Alone, I loved it, but maybe I wouldn’t always. Maybe when I got to the church I wouldn’t. Maybe when I walked down the aisle with the heat of everyone’s stares burning into my body I wouldn’t. Maybe when I took my soon-to-be husband’s hand I wouldn’t. I was dreading that part the most. I absolutely despised holding his hand. It was always too sweaty and no matter how much I protested he never quite learned to let it go.
“Is there where you’ve been all morning? Camping in the closet?” She snorts and shakes her head, “You should’ve hidden in the basement. There’s still some pizza there. All you’re getting here is the violet perfume your mother savagely sprayed on the bridesmaid dresses this morning.”
I don’t say anything. I never have to with Ezra. So with shut eyes and a million withheld sobs, I lean my head against Ezra’s shoulder. She holds out a hand and intertwines it with mine. It’s strangely moist and yet I don’t mind. I don’t mind it at all.
Two-Faced by: Alexandra Williams, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
Repeat
The low hum of a passing pendulum vibrated the air. I sat there in the field; my gaze fixated at the large brass disc. As it swayed past me again, a wave of wind pushed against me. I could feel the weight in my eyes from staring for so long at this large contraption. The arm stretched up past the clouds, almost endless in its existence. Yet here it was, dancing its repetitive movement.
Another low tune in the air, another force of wind.
Repetitive…
The word reverberated in my hazed mind, a word I’m too familiar with. As the haze lifted, my thoughts began to stir. How had I gotten here? How did someone like me survive this long? I will never understand—
My questions were halted as a sudden and intense pain shot through my head. My vision darkened and iron began to coat my tongue. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I found myself standing up.
The pendulum passed once again, pushing another wave of wind. As the breeze faded, I felt something wet touch my toes. Looking down, a body was laid out in front of me. The corpse was female and the clothes were eerily familiar. Her brown hair began to fade into an ashen white, exposing a crimson red pool pouring from the back of her skull. I walked around her to see her face. Her skin was ink black and her eyes were empty. No iris, no pupil, just white balls in her eye sockets.
Her lips began to curve into a malicious smile as gravity pulled me down.
The world around me began to shatter. Millions of glass shards filled the space as I dropped down into a dark void. For a while, it seemed like it was never-ending. The glass fragments were my only companions; the body was nowhere to be seen. The fragments shimmered like stars in the infinite darkness. They would flash images from my past, memories I didn’t want to remember. Memories of shame, guilt, humility, and pain. As I looked away from the recollections, a brilliant white helix hurtled toward me from below. I felt something pierce my gut.
Crack.
I found myself standing. Looking around, I was still in the void but now I stood on marble stairs. The stairs seemed to go beyond my eyes’ view; they twisted high into the darkness and spiraled down in its depths. On the steps in front of me was another corpse. I bent down and felt inclined to see her face. Her bones began to creak, sending a rush of chills up my back as I turned her over. Her appearance was identical to the other body. White hair, inked skin, empty eyes, and her face similar to mine. Her once white shirt was stained in blood that was oozing from a large gap in her abdomen.
The body twitched as a hushed chuckle escaped her mouth. Her lips began to curve wide, exposing sharp teeth.
“This is all your fault.”
Clash!
A giant shard of glass sliced through her. I jumped up, startled by the sudden appearance of this massive transparent blade. Smaller shards began to collide with my head. I needed to move.
I dashed down the stairs, hearing glass breaking and marble cracking behind me. As I delved deeper and deeper in the dark, I could hear whispers, repeating her words. Over and over, step after step, the whispers grew louder in my head. I made it to the last step but was halted by another large shard of glass crashing into the floor.
No, this wasn’t glass anymore.
It had a glass-like texture, but what stood before me were giant letters, jammed downwards into the ground. The whispers repeated the word in my ears.
Useless.
I ran past it and kept running. Crashes of new words slammed into the ground. The whispers repeated all the words to me, like the cries of hundreds of birds. They turned into noise, speaking new insults and threats, each with all too familiar words in an all too familiar environment. The noises began to shout their dark demands; my mind turned it all to static. My head began to split.
“STOP!” I screamed.
I crashed to the ground, trying to slow my overworked lungs. The noise went silent. The words stopped falling. I had a moment to breathe. That’s when I felt something shift in my hand.
A knife.
No… another word.
The noise began to creep back, but not in my head. They were surrounding me. All out of synch, whispering the same thing. The same as the word, now bloody and damning as I know it to be.
Disappointment.
I threw the word away, cradling myself. My jaw tightened, tears pouring from my eyes. I curled up and pulled on my hair, my breath becoming violent. The noise grew closer and I began to shake. I prayed for the noise to go away. For all of this to go away. To forget everything, to be left alone, to be at peace for once.
I thought my prayer was answered when the noise began to grow silent once more. Instead, I was given a nightmare.
A request. The same request.
In beautiful sinister harmony, they chanted the request. They sang it as if it were a message from a holy being.
A faint breeze brushed my arms. I could hear objects shift and thump behind the curtain of the song. As things settled, I slowly looked up. I was no longer in the void. I was in a dusty, dark attic. The choir began to fade into the background, quietly chanting.
I looked above me and I saw it. A twisted halo, one made of thick string and hay. It hung from the ceiling, swaying ever so slowly. I followed its swinging motion. My eyes, heavy from the tears. Heavy from the torment.
I sat there like an old stone relic watching the hollow pendulum move in the still air in its usual repetitive dance.
Being twelve and in the poverty ridden streets of Honduras, life is not great, but it could be worse going to school—not really something most would find normal, but school in the words of it being more of a small building holding one class. And the classes really do not last longer than noon, which is great because I can then go help my father in the fields to help him haul and harvest things for the owner. Fun. Well for fun all there really is playing marbles if you are rich enough to buy some or play war with sling shots and rocks. Eh, it could be dangerous, but being so skinny has its upside. We can hide behind the wooden pole if we stand sideways, and it’s like we disappear from some angles. Or sometimes if we could either buy a 10 cent spinning top, or make it from wood which is what it is made of, we would also play that. But playing around for kids is kind of uncommon for the most part because if we aren’t in school we are helping our parents with the jobs they do or helping Mom around the house getting the corn mill or just getting some things, small things, from the store that we need. So most of the time after school I would just go help my father with what he is doing, hauling crops and chopping them down.
Harvesting and hauling are very tedious jobs. My father doesn’t need any real help with his being very strong with an athletic look to him: dark skinned, curly hair, and brown eyes with a scar on his cheek. He makes very little pay, but it is what helps feed my 3 younger brothers and my mother. Being paid about 1 dollar a day, it really isn’t much, but is enough to survive. Walking home on the dirt and rocky road, my father asks about school. He’s holding onto a machete.
“So how was school today?”
“It was great. We talked more about countries and their capitals.”
Walking in between the tree and wooden fence lined road. Him smiling back.
“School really sounds fun. Good thing you like it.”
Kicking a small rock. “Yeah. It’s fun. Specially being around all my friends. There was a dead bird outside the building.”
“That’s good, but keep in mind that you are there to learn, not just hang out with your friends. Wonder how that bird died and got there.” Noticing my bare feet, “Good thing you don’t wear your shoes for anything else but school because they would be destroyed by now with how much you end up walking.”
“Yes, I know, Dad. I don’t want them to get messed up, so I just carry them ‘til I am right in front of the school so they won’t wear down so fast.” Looking up at him with a big smile.
We stop by a corner store to get some beans, rice, and eggs if we have enough. With a pound of rice going for thirty cents, a pound of beans for another thirty, and eggs six for forty, we have more than enough. My dad also gets a clear glass bottle full of what looks like water.
As we get home, we interrupt Mom from sewing my younger brother’s shirt that he tore while playing outside in in the woods. The house has an earthly smell, slanted and imperfect with chunks of the side missing, a surprise that it is still standing. Hell, I’m surprised the house doesn’t cave in with the hammocks being hung on it. Mom asks for the things we brought and begins to cook them. My dad heads to the hammock to relax as she gets food ready, and I go to my room that I share with my brothers to start doing my homework.
As I begin my brother, Jose, comes in and asks, “Why is dad always so tired that he doesn’t want to play?”
Putting down my pencil as I turn around to respond. ‘Well he works hard all day in the sun and those bundles really aren’t that light. They are pretty heavy.”
Settling in to his hammock. “Well why does he work so much? He should try to play with us more.”
“Well it’s the only reason we are able to eat. He has to work all day to make money to feed us and Mom.”
Now laying in the hammock with his eyes dropping. “I guess. Just wake me up when the food is ready.”
Turning back around to my desk, picking the pencil back up. “Okay.”
Thirty minutes later Mom calls out, “Come and eat.”
My brother and I race to the table because I don’t want my brother to take my portion. We get served a spoon of rice and beans. Since we had enough for eggs, I am more than delighted to show up at the table today. As my mom walks to the room next door to give the plate of food to my dad, my brother, Jesus, whispers to me with a mouth full of egg and beans, “Wish we could have eggs every day.”
Stuffing my face with the rice and beans first, “Yeah, this is great. We can finally have some eggs with our food for tonight.”
We continue to eat. After we finish, we begin to place the plates in the sink, which is more of a concrete cube with a wide hole that appears as a sink, because we only wash our dishes and clothes at the river like most families would.
Heading to our hammocks to sleep, our mother follows us to tuck in our youngest brother, Jonah, who is five. As she tucks him in, she whispers to him, “Buena noches, Amor,” and kisses him on the forehead. She then speaks to the rest of us and says, “Goodnight. Don’t be late to school.”
We all respond with a, “Yes, mama. Goodnight.”
As we get up the next morning, we grab our towel that we share and makeshift toothbrushes and a sample sized tube of toothpaste, and head to the river. A five hundred yard walk doesn’t seem that far when you have to walk 2 miles every day to school since we can’t afford the bus fare for all four of us. As we finish washing ourselves and our dirtied clothes from yesterday, we start to walk home in our underwear, the only thing we brought so that we don’t get our school clothes dirtied on our way home.
Walking home, the second youngest brother, George, bashes his toes on a rock and yells in pain. With only being a few feet from home, my mother hears this and comes outside to see what happened. As she sees George grabbing his toes, she directs her eyes towards me and asks with an angry and to-the-point tone, “What happened?”
I try explaining that he stubbed his toes on a rock, but she won’t have none of that, so she takes me inside and gets her belt and begins to whoop me because he got hurt. Since I am the oldest, I have to protect the younger ones, no matter what. I hold myself back yelling from the pain so as to not let the neighbors know what is happening because then she would just whoop me more. I take it. When she stops, “Go get ready for school or you’re going to be late.”
I responded with a quivering voice. “Si, Mama.”
Walking to school, my brother stares at me, specially. George says, “Sorry. I should not have been so loud.”
Adjusting my leather belt that is used to carry the few books I have. “It’s okay. I am the oldest. I should not let you get hurt when I’m with you.”
Afterwards it is just silent between us ‘til we get to school and forget all about the incident.
As school finishes up at twelve, we gather at the front. When we are done talking to our friends to walk home together, I am going to go drop my brothers off, then head to the fields to help my father out again.
When we get home, my mother tells me to change out of the school clothes and hang them, then head out to where my father is to help him. “Yes, Mama. I’m going.”
As I’m arriving I can see my father talking to a farmer with a cow. As I jog up to them, I overhear that my father is trying see how much the man will sell the cow. In that instant, I begin to imagine all the good things that will come when my father buys this cow. We will have milk with that. We will be able to also have some cheese to eat and drink. But also, on the other side, we could begin selling cheese and milk to people, and make money that we desperately need. As I come back to focus in reality, I hear my father say, “Will think about it tonight and get back to you tomorrow right here at the same time.”
The farmer says, “That’s fine. Alright. See you tomorrow, then.”
As our work is done at the field and we begin walking home, I tell my father, “That cow will be great. We can have milk, cheese, and even butter.”
He says, fixing his straw hat, “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? I wonder if your mom would want that cow as well.”
I pause for a second to think. “I don’t know why she wouldn’t.”
We do our regular routine of stopping by the store for groceries and then continue our walk home. When we get home, I open the door to the smell of the now common earthly material-made house. I run to Mom and begin to tell her about the cow and how great it is. My father walks in, and she looks at him confused like, “What he is talking about?” They send me off fed and ready to go to bed, and begin to talk about the situation as my father takes a sip of coffee. “Yeah, well this man is selling his dairy cow because he has to pay something off.”
Gliding her finger across the table. “How much is he asking for it?”
Putting the cup back down to rest on the wooden withered table. “He is asking for 30 dollars. He really needs to sell this cow.”
Now tapping the table with her finger. “Thirty isn’t that much, but how much do you have saved up?”
Looking at the floor ashamed. “I… I don’t have anything. I thought you had something.”
Trying to kill him with her eyes. “I’m not the one that is given any money to be saved. You waste whatever is left on liquor. How could you be so irresponsible? So many years and still nothing. Is this a joke?”
Now looking her dead in the eyes. “No, this is not. Well, we will just not get the cow.”
As I awake to do my morning routine, I think back to the dream I had of the cow last night. “It is going to be great. This cow will for sure change our lives for the better.”
I can’t wait to get out of school to go see Dad to pick the cow up. As I arrive, my father had just got there to talk to the man about the cow. As I get closer, I hear my dad saying, “No, we cannot buy the cow from you.”
The man petting the cow looks at it. “How about I sell to you for fifteen? I really need the money.”
I look at my dad, waiting for his response. “No, I can’t do that. Sorry about that.”
Now adjusting his hat. “Well then, have a job day, sir.”
Father got out early today, so we begin walking home like usual. As I look at him this anger begins to boil in me, asking myself, “How can he not be able to pay fifteen dollars after so many years? I thought he had something. How could he not have anything saved up?” My anger comes to a point where I want to just yell at the situation I am in, the world I am living because this truly is not fair, but I know that that is not going to solve anything but get me a whooping from my dad for being too loud and causing an extremely unnecessary scene. As I look over to Father, I see him looking normal—not sad, not happy but just plain-faced—looking like this is just another day and nothing has happened. His machete hangs to his side and his straw hat flaps stiffly in the wind. As we stop by the store, he doesn’t pick up eggs this time, but two more bottles of liquor instead.
When we get home, it is silent. My brother is already asleep, and Mother doesn’t say a word to my father, but tells me to go to bed. She also goes to bed, leaving my father to himself. Thinking back, I have never seen my father not miss drinking for a single day that I can remember. He wouldn’t get full blown drunk, but would get a buzz. I remember when the store didn’t have liquor he would buy hand sanitizer and water that down to get his daily alcohol in him.
As I wake up I notice there is a dead scorpion on the floor of the room. I just stare at it, spacing out. After a bit I pick it up and throw it to the dogs outside.
Once at school, I get this very nervous feeling and a chill goes down my spine. I think nothing of it, for I am going to go see my dad afterwards anyways. Beginning my route to where he works, my mother tells me to take him some food, which is odd because she usually never would do that, but I suppose he is not going to be able to come back in time for dinner, so I listen.
As I get there, I see my dad hacking at the sugarcanes. I yell for him to notice me and that I brought him some food.
He says, “Go home. It’s not much today, but I am going to have to stay late to help the owner with other things and I don’t want you out after dark.”
As I give him his food, I begin to walk a few paces away. “Yes, Dad,” and I begin to walk home in the middle of the day with the sun blasting me. My father, knowing the sun is brutal, calls me back and gives me his straw hat so I have some type of shade.
Getting home, I tell Mom that Dad told me to just go home and, that he is going to be late. We eat and go to bed. Wake up on Saturday, so no school, and I go and ask Mom where Dad is and she says, “He didn’t come back yesterday. Maybe he stayed at the owner house to sleep since it was so late.”
Myself, feeling uneasy. “Oh. Okay. Well, I am going to go see him there. Want me to take anything for him?”
Swinging back and forth on the hammock, looking at the blue sky. “Yes, there is some food on the table ready. Take it to him, please.”
As I grab the lunch, I head to the fields, and when I get there I cannot see him, so I go to the owner and ask if he knows where my dad is, and he says, “I thought he went home after finishing up.”
Spinning the lunch. “No, he was not there.”
The owner, lifting his hat to fan himself. “Maybe you should check a bar he always goes to before you get here. It’s behind a store that is a mile down.”
“Okay. Thank you very much.”
Getting to the store, I notice the bar that I had never seen before. As I head in to look for him, I scan the room and nope, he isn’t there either, so I begin to head home. He most likely is already on route over there.
As I get to the small stream that connects the rivers, I see that there is a crowd of people, so I continue because I am curious as to what they are seeing. There are paramedics and soldiers around, as well. As I get closer, I notice that there is a body lying there with a machete 3 feet away from the body and a bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. As I get closer, I notice a scar on the man’s face. My stomach and body go numb. I’m almost lightheaded, and I run to the body to finally see that my father is dead, his body and white buttoned shirt torn and tattered, almost appearing as if he had been chewed and spit out.
I cry and hug his body so tight my shoulder and arms begin to burn, hoping this is just a joke, that this cannot be real. My tears now create a stain in his white, dusty shirt with bloodstains all around it.
I overhear the medics say, “This was on purpose. A group of people killed him while he was drunk.”
I cannot stop crying. My body goes numb on top of his, and I continue to cry, grabbing his hand, hoping he will grab mine and wake up to say, “I was just jumped and knocked out. Nothing big,” but his hand is stiff and cold.
A soldier walks up to me and places a hand on my back, patting me, trying to hold back his tears, seeing the pain I am in over the father I will never get back. It has been ten minutes now, and the soldier tells me they have to take the body and go to the coroner.
As they leave, I sit to the side of the dirt road crying, asking myself, “What motherfucker could take him like this?” Grabbing the dirt in the road. “What did he do? Why didn’t he just come straight home?” I throw the dirt that was clenched in my hands at the road, and I can’t keep myself up. My arms are weak and my soul is torn from what I saw. I fall and lie on the road for just a moment, whimpering. The lunch is spilled, the beans and rice all over the road, and the dogs eating it right up.
