Self-Portrait

I don’t want to go to the neurologist, but my family insists something is wrong because I am rhyming words and predicting the weather. I knew my daughter-in-law would have an affair before my son because I watch Spanish soap operas, not for the Spanish lessons, but the expressions. Que lastima. What a pity my son is blindfolded to his wife’s wildness. I knew my husband would die without saying goodbye because he believed we would meet in the next life, but I know there is no afterlife, no meeting place where we can meet for a drink or two. I wish I could have told him nothing was as miraculous as that first day when he smiled at me and said I looked like Pocahontas. I wore braids then to keep my hair wavy, not curly. Now I let it just be curly. I let things be. The daughter-in-law. The son. The husband who won’t like my hairstyle. But he’s dead and, as I said, we are not meeting again. I know I repeat myself. But repetition is what makes certain songs stay in our minds. We repeat lyrics. Then find the words when we need to sing. I am singing now, but my family thinks I am off kilter, given to flights of fantasy, bereft of my marbles. I didn’t know they wanted a Betty Crocker mother who couldn’t carry a tune.

This piece was featured in Volume 4. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.