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Authors: Luisita Lopez Torregrosa
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tired face, with its bluish circles under her eyes. Angeles, Amaury, and I seemed glued to the kitchen chairs around the table, as if we would never get up. Olga was some- where in the house, tending to her boys. Carmen to the side of the table, not quite in the circle, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes lowered, but she was listening.
She had on her makeup but looked drained, although she cer- tainly seemed more composed than the rest of us. She had on her earrings, her rings, her watch, gifts from her husband. She had on a short skirt that showed off her lean legs.
You look just like mother, I said to her, noticing her almond- shaped eyes, her fine cheekbones, her prim mouth. She smiled her tight faint smile, shaking her head. I don’t see it, she said. Well, mother when she was very young, I said, putting my arm around her. She pressed her lips, flattered but embarrassed. She had thin
lips, not at all like mother’s, but I was seeing mother in all of them, in all but me.
She was happiest in Mexico, I said suddenly, just to say something. This was ground we had covered over the years.We had endlessly dis- cussed every minute detail of our mother’s life, especially mother’s life with father, and the years when the first three of us were born.
The war had ended, Angeles was born, and my father left the army and his job in the sugar refineries. He had decided to become a doctor.With my mother’s help, he got a government scholarship to study medicine in Mexico. For the first time in his life, he had to imagine a place outside the island, a place where he knew no one. But because he lacked imagination, he lacked fear.
My mother, whose ambitions for him were even larger than his own, left the work she loved at the Justice Department, the life of fam- ily and friends, and the four of us—I was three years old, Angeles was two—traveled two thousand miles, over the Atlantic, over the Gulf of Mexico, in bouncing, slow propeller planes, stopping in Habana, in Miami, sick to our stomachs, light-headed, to Mexico City.
Mexico? Carmen asked softly, with a look of surprise. She never talked to us much about Mexico. I turned to her.Yes, Mexico, years before you were born.
Angeles shook her head.
I don’t remember anything about Mexico, Amaury interrupted. You were a baby then, I said.
Angeles was very quiet. She was staring into some vision only she could see. Dragged on her cigarette, mashed the butt into a saucer. I watched her. She didn’t look at me. She had changed into an old T- shirt and jeans. She had not slept well for days, had stayed up most of the night before the funeral with Amaury, had stayed in mother’s den, had helped him fold out the sofa bed and put on the sheets and covered him with a blanket.
Those were their best years, I repeated, she told me so herself once. She said, life was simple then.
Life was simple then, I thought, pushing away the image of her body in the ground, alone in a cemetery whose name I had already forgotten. Who could think of that? But it was all I kept thinking about, her body in a dark box. Sitting in Sara’s kitchen, at that moment, I wanted to think of Mexico, the smell of roasting corn and the thick smoke of coal fires, as if I were five years old again.
#
Along the Paseo de la Reforma and the Avenida Chapultepec, sweep- ing boulevards bordered by trees and parks, great hotels and shops, the city opens up to the clouds, the streets broaden, and flower- strewn fountains spray the tepid tropical air. Immense paintings appear on the facades of buildings, murals telling the story of Mex- ico: doomed faces, a blood-soaked earth, peasants in loose spun- cotton shirts, barefoot or in huaráches, carrying sticks and shovels, raising the banner of the Virgen de Guadalupe.
In the small Ford that my father drove, I stood on tiptoe on the floorboard in the back, clinging to the headrest of the front seat, with my face out the window, looking up at the murals and the
She had on her makeup but looked drained, although she cer- tainly seemed more composed than the rest of us. She had on her earrings, her rings, her watch, gifts from her husband. She had on a short skirt that showed off her lean legs.
You look just like mother, I said to her, noticing her almond- shaped eyes, her fine cheekbones, her prim mouth. She smiled her tight faint smile, shaking her head. I don’t see it, she said. Well, mother when she was very young, I said, putting my arm around her. She pressed her lips, flattered but embarrassed. She had thin
lips, not at all like mother’s, but I was seeing mother in all of them, in all but me.
She was happiest in Mexico, I said suddenly, just to say something. This was ground we had covered over the years.We had endlessly dis- cussed every minute detail of our mother’s life, especially mother’s life with father, and the years when the first three of us were born.
The war had ended, Angeles was born, and my father left the army and his job in the sugar refineries. He had decided to become a doctor.With my mother’s help, he got a government scholarship to study medicine in Mexico. For the first time in his life, he had to imagine a place outside the island, a place where he knew no one. But because he lacked imagination, he lacked fear.
My mother, whose ambitions for him were even larger than his own, left the work she loved at the Justice Department, the life of fam- ily and friends, and the four of us—I was three years old, Angeles was two—traveled two thousand miles, over the Atlantic, over the Gulf of Mexico, in bouncing, slow propeller planes, stopping in Habana, in Miami, sick to our stomachs, light-headed, to Mexico City.
Mexico? Carmen asked softly, with a look of surprise. She never talked to us much about Mexico. I turned to her.Yes, Mexico, years before you were born.
Angeles shook her head.
I don’t remember anything about Mexico, Amaury interrupted. You were a baby then, I said.
Angeles was very quiet. She was staring into some vision only she could see. Dragged on her cigarette, mashed the butt into a saucer. I watched her. She didn’t look at me. She had changed into an old T- shirt and jeans. She had not slept well for days, had stayed up most of the night before the funeral with Amaury, had stayed in mother’s den, had helped him fold out the sofa bed and put on the sheets and covered him with a blanket.
Those were their best years, I repeated, she told me so herself once. She said, life was simple then.
Life was simple then, I thought, pushing away the image of her body in the ground, alone in a cemetery whose name I had already forgotten. Who could think of that? But it was all I kept thinking about, her body in a dark box. Sitting in Sara’s kitchen, at that moment, I wanted to think of Mexico, the smell of roasting corn and the thick smoke of coal fires, as if I were five years old again.
#
Along the Paseo de la Reforma and the Avenida Chapultepec, sweep- ing boulevards bordered by trees and parks, great hotels and shops, the city opens up to the clouds, the streets broaden, and flower- strewn fountains spray the tepid tropical air. Immense paintings appear on the facades of buildings, murals telling the story of Mex- ico: doomed faces, a blood-soaked earth, peasants in loose spun- cotton shirts, barefoot or in huaráches, carrying sticks and shovels, raising the banner of the Virgen de Guadalupe.
In the small Ford that my father drove, I stood on tiptoe on the floorboard in the back, clinging to the headrest of the front seat, with my face out the window, looking up at the murals and the
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