The Lesser Tragedy of Death. Cristina Garcia
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Apologia
When You Die
CODA: Last Dream
A salon, or sunlit rotunda (our old dining room?).
You come speak to me. People who knew you come too,
whispering things.
This business of biography is a sham.
Thin green brocade of words.
Knots of grief. Can grief be a gift?
I fear it will make me your enemy but you must
trust me: I offer this in peace.
That you can speak to dogs.
That they don’t listen to you.
That women are impenetrable,
except for the obvious.
That children should like you.
That it’s possible to be a hero.
That the good things in life are bad for
you: mothers, malted milk balls, cocaine.
That there is a God but He’s ignored you.
That a family awaits you.
That you suffer for cheapness.
(Are you listening, Dad?)
That one morning you’ll wake up dead.
And that will be without pain.
To recover the lost wealth
of boyhood, to bait you
with the magic of ordinary days.
Our childhood is dead.
Nothing is left but this:
your words against mine.
That Mami asked ¿Quién es?
when you were put in her arms.
That her teeth fell out.
That she got fat and depressed.
That three children in thirty-five
months was too much.
It’s not that she rejected you,
but this:
No one thought she was pretty anymore.
No one looked at her twice.
This was never you—
firstborn; daughter, time
standing still for pure awe.
Celebrations and party dresses,
professional photographs.
When you were born, the revolution
soured and the deluxe world we lived in
was crumbling. Who had time to welcome
one small boy?
You gave away everything:
your candy and rapt attention, the marbles
on your Chinese checkerboard.
I winced at your misplaced trust. Why couldn’t you
toughen up? You were a boy, weren’t you?
Where did your gentleness come from?
Mornings you woke up cheerful in your crib.
The one you slept in till you were ten.
We got to working on your finger snapping
first. Until you did it without missing a beat.
Fling out your elbows!
Turn your knees to rubber!
Like your life depended on it.
We made you believe you looked
cool, hermano. Twitchy, pint-sized swinger,
little Cuban Elvis in short pants and a cowlick.
This was your first, your easiest
step. Chubby Checker was next.
Now, are you ready to do the twist?
You wore your suit like a scratchy
blanket, little bow tie and jacket,
perfectly creased long pants, a crew cut.
Crayons and Superman lunch box in hand,
you took your place with us.
Mami made sure we looked good
on the outside, that the
world would never point to us and say less than.
Who knew the real damage
was done on the inside?
You begged me to teach you to ride
a two-wheeler. All the other kids
knew how. You’re too short,
I said. You can’t reach
the pedals. Wait till you grow.
I don’t wanna wait till I grow,
you said. Please, okay? Please.
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