Dad has come home tired, hungry, just as we all are after a long day at school or completing routine house chores. Mom is still flipping the meat on the frying pan, as she tries to keep the hair and sweat off her face, while Lucy -our housekeeper for over 8 years- is mixing sugar and lime juice in a big jar of iced water. Dad settles in and in a blink of an eye appears sitting by the table, opening the brown paper bag to delight us all: freshly baked pan francés. I am sure his sleeves are still warm from holding the treasure from the car to the table.
That kind of bread only deserves the best, the prettiest and softest napkin set on the weaved bamboo basket, anxiously waiting to embrace all seven pieces… but the joy only lasts a moment. Dad, mom, Lucy, and all four children, are just as anxious as the towel. Soon it finds itself empty again, the bread is gone. And only hope, will keep it peacefully resting in the pantry, until the next time Dad walks in holding the newly born or fleshly baked bundle, in a brown paper bag.
© Irene Z, 2019.
Beaten Wonder Woman
I work eight hours
just have a quick lunch
run to the subway
At 4:55.
Pick up the children
talk to the teachers
about their day
about their day
now children talk.
Play make-believe
watch some TV
give all the love
they should receive.
Start making dinner
start laundry load
toss the remainders
and wash lunch containers.
Practice their numbers
practice their letters
give them a bath
it’s almost bed time.
Put on soft pjs
read them a story
kiss them good night
and turn off the lights.
Finish the dishes
take garbage out
swipe kitchen floor
I can’t do anymore.
Remove all my make up
despite none left
put on my night guard
in case I’m stressed.
Reply some emails
browse for nonsense
sleep for six hours
could’ve used 8!
Jump in the shower
gain super powers
pluck out that hair
the rest, who cares.
Sweet sleepy faces
brighten my day
have toast and coffee
but milk for them.
Pack their lunches
take them to school
kiss them goodbye
let go off my thigh.
I eight work hours
just brief a take lunch
then sub to runway
At 54.5
Yes, I am exhausted at times
And can’t seem to find the way out
Yet I recharge and keep going
Because I like where I am.
I must have some super powers!
But wonder woman… I’m not.
Zzz…
Last Thursday I met Khadija. Khadija was patiently caring for her sweet 6-year-old daughter, who was about to put together a complicated puzzle on mommy’s phone. She protested in sign language when the fun was taken away, then smiled and proudly showed me her beautiful glitter shoes. Off we went, our separate ways; me, to my “tiring” routine and her, to probably about ten times the amount of work and to take care of her daughter, who is fed through a gastrostomy feeding tube (G-tube).
And that’s how I met Khadija, The Wonder Woman, in real life.
© Irene Z, 2019.
In honor to all struggling parents, parents with sick children, single moms and dads needing support.
She married a bully
She married a bully
for she could not see
all the signs and warnings
from those who did see.
She preferred to ignore
the rudeness to waiters
if a meal was cold,
and to those he thought
were completely wrong.
The lack of compassion
for those who are in pain,
or respect for his elders
– including herself –
should have told her something
how long would it take?
Then she started feeling
the weight of his words
finding a new path
to her weary own heart.
He grabbed on to others
trying hard to float
she was more than tired
but managed to soar.
Watching from the distance
empowering her soul
could live there forever
standing by the shore.
© Irene Z, 2019.
The shadow of the mountains in Inde town
There were about ten of us kids, being my sister the eldest at the time, not even 16 years old. We ran to the ice cream vendor, who was riding his rusted old tricycle down the road. Some of us skipping, others splashing on puddles and mud, that the heavy afternoon rain had left behind.
Licking multicolor popsicles that slowly melted through our sticky fingers, we sat on the curb and watched horses, dogs, chickens and children pass by, no car could be seen in the small vintage town. Looking east, the plaza could be seen, with iron benches secured to the ground. Looking west, the mountains; low enough that anyone brave enough could climb, prepared to find snakes and cacti – wearing shorts or sandals was never a wise idea.
Electricity was still not available to everyone, so it became dark in no time and we all run inside to our parents. Once in pajamas, we gathered around on the twin beds pushed against each other, to masochistically listen to the supernatural stories my aunt had to tell. With tears in our eyes, we heard about dishes breaking in the past while -no one- was in the kitchen, doors creaking, dragged furniture, shadows, all sorts of things her family had experienced generation after generation under that same roof.
As a result, nobody was willing to go to the washroom, located across the large, immense looking central patio. All the rooms connected one another, in the old brick house, yet precisely the washroom had to be built absurdly that far.
“Mom, can you PLEASE come with me to the washroom?” my cousin begged her mother. But two were not enough to fight fear, so few trios took turns, running to and from, nervously laughing and squeezing each other’s arms.
We must have fallen asleep most likely praying, and morning came, loud and bright, as to reassure nothing like that could ever happened.
© Irene Zúñiga 2017