ARACELIS GONZÁLEZ ASENDORF At Fifty-Nine

ARACELIS GONZÁLEZ ASENDORF | AT FIFTY-NINE

I light a candle to guide your way as you used to do for others. Come, I call you. Come sit in my kitchen the way I sat in yours. Look, I’ve made cafecito the way you taught me; dark, sweet, and foamy.

I fill two small cups—thick, blue rimmed, white tasitas I bought at the bodega. I place María cookies on a plate: your favorite sweets.

Ay, boba. I hear you suck air through your teeth making a chirping sound.

There you are, I say. The you I want today. You at fifty-nine.

Granddaughter, what do you want from this me?

To know how you felt leaving your island behind and crossing the Florida Straits?

Sad. Frightened. So frightened. We huddled in a boat as rain beat down, and my sons fought waves that tried to swallow us. Your mami held your small brother. I pressed your eightyear-old body tightly to my breasts, never letting go until we were safe. Don’t you remember? I remember an old woman. But, you were fifty-nine. No home, no money, salt water-ruined clothes. How did you cope starting over in a land whose language you couldn’t speak?

Ay, niña, I did what I had to do. I followed my children. I cared for their children so they could work. I cooked for everybody so they could eat. In the evenings, when the house slept, I hemmed pants and dresses, and got paid by the piece. When you have nothing, every penny helps. That’s all.

“Quiero más.” Tell me more.

Chamomile soothes upset stomachs, sleeplessness, and broken hearts.

Was your heart broken?

Part of my heart was broken.

Which part?

The part that left behind my sisters, and my parents’ graves, and the house where I birthed my children. Mi casa, where I taught my babies who lived to talk, and bathed the ones who died for burial.

What were your dreams? Desires?

Ay, niña, don’t be foolish. What energy did I have for my dreams? With what time? I desired survival and rest. My heart dreamt for you. What did you do with those dreams?

Look, I say, this year I’m fifty-nine. Now, I have your cushiony breasts. I, too, pressed my girl child to them as a storm tried to claim her. She fought blue pills and white powders that tried to drown her like waves. I held on fiercely, the way you taught me, through the tempest until she was safe.

Look, I say, I keep chamomile in my cupboard. I’m thrifty because I know pennies count. I got the education you never had. And with that education, I learned to sew. I stitch one letter to another, forming words, so that when my daughter is fifty-nine she can read them. She won’t have to conjure you to know you. You’ll be right there on the page—the you that left one life behind so that ours could be better. She’ll know her story. It comes from yours and mine.