I went to pick wild flowers today

I went to pick wild flowers today, 
not the kind that scream and curse you, 
as you tilt and twist their stem, 
vandalizing a life too brief and brittle for beginners, 
but the kind that welcome you, 
with leaves that sway to touch your skin,

and pedals that quiver like ecstatic teenagers who have just been invited to a party.

Lack of spices

 I love my wife. Not only because she’s the mother of my children, but also because she’s an amazing woman. But every morning, when she prepares breakfast, there’s a stranger at the kitchen door staring at her.

         “Ah, there you are. Your coffee’s ready, honey,” she says, turning around to greet me with that gentle, trusting smile. I smile back, scanning her cheeks, generously sprinkled with her trademark freckles that, after all these years, still enchant me.

I pick up my mug and sit at the table without taking my eyes off her. Slowly, I outline the contours of a body that, every morning, covers itself with a robe the color of a sea storm, and in the silence of the moment, I feel a tightness in my heart.

         “How’s the coffee?” she asks.

I take a sip and stop, unsatisfied with the taste.

         “It’s ah.. not spicy enough.”

         “Spicy?! Coffee’s not supposed to be spicy, honey!”

Pieces of God's soul

Mother adores flowers. She says they are pieces of God's soul. That is why all flowers are precious to her. But when it comes to her favorites, daisies, sweet peas, tiger lilies and orange roses always top the list. Early one morning, when the sun was not fully awaken, mother stepped outside, still in her fluffy pink robe, knelt on the soft grass in front of her garden as if before an altar. Gently, she placed the tiny seeds into the moist soil humming to "Raindrops keep falling on my head". I awoke to the sound of her sweet voice and peeked out my bedroom window. Mother is the most beautiful flower in the garden.

Strawberries

Behind Naomi's house, that's where you'll find them. Red, plump, and juicy. Don't need to wash them. Just pull them from their green umbrellas, blow the vagabond spiders away, lick the dust fairies, and pop them in your mouth, one after the other.

I wish I had a strawberry forest behind my house, so I wouldn't have to cross the street and walk to the end when I felt like having some. I would get up from the dinner table, and before mother could ask, I would say, "I'm going out for dessert, want to come?"

jelly beans and gummy bears

Kylie loves jellybeans, the red and orange ones. Says they’re the sweetest. I prefer gummy bears, the green ones. I like the taste of green. Yesterday after school we spread out a tablecloth on the large table in the back porch and made houses with our goodies. For the first time, she borrowed some of my green gummies to finish her chimney and front door. She was really inspired and made the biggest house ever. “One day I’m gonna have a house like this one. I’m gonna call it The Rainbow Mansion!” And then she looked at my house and said, “You’re always makin’ green houses. Who wants to live in a green house? That is sooo ugly!” And she squeezed her eyes and wrinkled her nose so that she ended up making a face that was much uglier than the ugly she said my house was. I looked into her shriveled blue eyes. “My bears will eat your beans,” I whispered in my serious voice. And I must have had a scary face because that’s when she looked at me like she had just peed her pants.

Broken Shells

Dad bought a house near the ocean so we could try to live happily without mom. She died when I was five. Since then, sand and seashells became my toys. When I was seven, I got tired of building sandcastles and started collecting seashells -- but only the perfect, flawless ones. I hated broken seashells. Somehow they reminded me of mom: The part of my life that was missing.  Every day I collected shells of so many beautiful shapes and colors. Soon, my bedroom turned into a shrine. Seashells poured over my drawer, night tables, and windowsill. Sometimes, on the rug, I would draw pictures with the smaller ones. On rainy days, I use to imagine my bedroom in the bottom of the ocean, a place where only perfect shells were kept; the ones that were never washed to shore, broken on its rocks and corals, or smashed against its cliffs; The ones that never risked their lives to feel the sunshine dry their soul. My shells were protected. They would never face such torture. One day I dreamt of mom. She was showing me a broken shell. “Take this,” she said. “It’s broken,” I told her. Then she smiled, “No it isn’t, the rest is with me.” The next day I gathered all my shells and scattered them on the shore and into the ocean.  After that day I only collected broken ones. I knew mom was above the ocean breaking shells for me to pick up. 

The space between

Summer mosquitoes always found succulent skin to poke under papa's porch. Even with the lights turned off, and Jimmy's cigarette smoke hole-punching the air, they would dance around lazy eyes like distracting shadows and slumberous finger puppets. Sometimes a slap would pierce the silence, and under the misty moonlight, a shade of smeared blood exposed the victorious murderer, who smiled self-satisfied at his impeccable aim.

Now and then, Grandpa would try to catch one with his parachute hands, thinking he had squashed it into his sweaty palms. Triumphantly, he would open his fingers, only to see the bloodsucker fly dizzily into the free air.

Grandma couldn't see well, but we knew when she felt them, "Moosekitos,  moosekitos," she would whisper, shaking one off her knee, another off her chin. But she would never kill them, or curse their unwelcomed presence, for bad luck would torment the family.

            Betty liked to sing to them. “The music soothes their desire to attack”, she would say. I felt the more she sang the more mosquitos seemed to be hovering around us with a greater craving for our blood.

            Night after night, during those scorching summers, we would summon ourselves to their torture; the price we paid for sitting outside gazing at the enchanted northern lights that stretched above us like woven carpets of stars.

In the morning, under the first rays of daylight, the red moles emerged; unmasked, and unashamed. A nuisance we never invited, invaded our bodies transforming our fingernails into weapons.

Under the mulberry tree

The mulberry tree in Mr. Rodrigo’s garden was enormous. It was the only one in the neighborhood and stood right in the middle of a flowerless garden. Every July, huge, plump mulberries inundated its branches. The kind you don’t see in supermarkets. Pedro wanted me to see it, so that afternoon he grabbed the end of my white dress and pulled me towards the gate. Mr. Rodrigo was on holidays somewhere in southern Spain, so the coast was clear. I was new in the neighborhood and impressing me was mandatory. As Pedro climbed onto a lower branch and up unto a higher one, eating the succulent fruits as he went along, I stood below, watching him in awe. “Maria, looka this one!” he shouted. “This a one is fo you!” And like a little chimpanzee, he quickly swiveled down the tree and stood with his nose nearly touching mine. “Eat it”, he said. Between his fingers was the biggest mulberry I had ever seen. I looked at his stained red mouth, “C’mon, eat it”, he insisted, gently parting my lips with the warm berry. “Good, uh?” It was the perfect combination of sweet and sour. “I geta more,” he whispered. I smiled. The liquid started trickling towards my chin. “I can’t get dirty, Mamá will be angry.” Pedro’s hot breath touched my nose; his eyes scanned my face, suddenly stopping at my mouth. “Don’t wanna your mamá get angry,” he said, and wiped the excessive nectar with his kisses.     

Interview (Inner view)

“My son, you ask? Oh he's a hell of a guy. Loves ping pong and squash but hates washing the car and helping his mother with the dishes, whenever he visits. Not a manly thing to do, but being an only son he's gotta help around the house sometimes, heh heh. But Claire and I will do everything for him…Oh ya - my wife and I have a great relationship. Wonderful woman. And we’re so lucky to have a great son. I mean Rory means everything to us… Claire…  Claire had... well, she couldn't get pregnant easily so we went through a difficult time -- very difficult. But all that's gone. Rory came and grew up and went to college and has made us very proud… No, he's not finished his course yet. Not easy studying to be doctor. I mean Rory's extremely intelligent, he’s just ah… had bad luck with some professors, that's all. Otherwise he would have finished ah… ’bout three  years ago… Ah, ya... it's cost us a hunk of money, and we’re not rich, but we'll do everything for our little Rory - well, he’s really not that little anymore, heh heh… Naw, that's just lack of sleep. He's been real tired. You know, staying up late, studying, and all… Really? Nah, couldn't have been our Rory! Rory's studying in the east coast, Pennsylvania, not Nevada.”

Coldfrontation

That autumn morning, as usual, Henry woke up early, had his oatmeal before washing his face, and walked to the park to feed his birds. Today a woman sat on his bench.

“Nice to see I have some company today.” The woman sat like a broken statue. Only her hands continued to knit the scarf that covered her thin legs.

“My wife use to knit too. She…” He pointed to his chest. “She made this sweater, you know?” The noise of the needles was the only response Henry got.

“I come here every morning to feed my birds… My birds…” he chuckled.  I call them my birds ‘cause I take care of ‘em.”

The woman sighed, pulled up her glasses, laid her hands on her lap and stared at the scarf.

“It’s cold today,” Henry continued. “Winter’s on its way. I bet that scarf will help keep someone warm.” The woman’s hands started to tremble.

“You know, talking helps keep us warm. Moving our mouth is like exercise.” He paused. “But it’s the words that really warm us on the inside.” 

He smiled and rubbed his large, dry hands together. Suddenly, the woman covered her ears and squinted at the line of trees in front of her. 

“You remind me of my husband,” she said. Her words shot out like ice cubes. “I hated him.”