Carlos Lopez
Puddles Meet Jenny. Since nine, she’s been a mommy to Mommy and her younger brother, age two, named Tommy ’cause Mommy ain’t there, most of the time and Daddy wasn’t there, none of the time. So this little young Ms. gotta grow up grind— she awakens at sunrise to baby cries while Momma got her nod on from heroin. Around here, that’s the norm. No lie, still Jenny strives, with pride. Hope’s alive that Daddy’s coming back one day and stop sending her checks the mailman way— ’cause she’s growing fast, Tommy too, and she don’t wanna hear him say Who are you? So she does what she gotta do: washes clothes, cops the milk, cleans the crib, and before feeding Tommy, she puts on his bib. She’s a grown-up kid, ahead of time. She blows my mind— how she knows who she wants to be, an M.D., so she can cure Mommy of her wicked disease— Please, God, she prays on her knees as she looks out the window at the rain and the breeze and believes the storm will pass, won’t last. Tears form puddles in the ghetto when kids parent their parents ’cause they’re drug addicts. Tears form puddles in the ghetto when people we love decide to suicide their lives. Tears form puddles in the ghetto when all hope is choked and no one believes. Tears form puddles in the ghetto. Your ghetto. My ghetto. All ghettos.
