into us but whatever it was, I’ve seen it in you, mijo, when spring appears for a day in February and you walk outside in shorts. I was wearing yourdad’s T-shirt over a white cotton skirt. My hair, which was very long, was tied back in a braid. I wore three or four rings, long black bead earrings, a diamond stud pierced in my upper right lobe. Can you believe your mother dressed like that? You must wonder why I can remember clothes in such detail. It helps me to remember feelings, that’s why. And if I can describe the feelings of that night, the silk and barbed wire of it, then I will have told you the whole truth.
You see those marks under the brass handle of your top drawer? That was where we snapped open beer bottles before we sat on the bed and toasted El Salvador. Your father was as dark as you, very handsome. He had found extra work tarring roofs; the autumn sun got under his skin and stayed there. He wore patched jeans, no shirt, a St. Jude medal on a chain around his neck. He took my breath away; I’m not embarrassed to tell you this. He leaned up against the headboard, smiled for no reason. His face did not flicker with a thousand emotions like yours does; it was an event when he smiled. We held hands,watched the moon disappear behind clouds, then reappear in the basement window. The lace curtain you used to think was so “girlish” was parted; I had hung it to soften the wrought iron bars that protected the glass. For some reason José Luis got it into his head to teach me how to blow on the lip of the beer bottle, to create the sound of wood flutes he said were played in the Andes. What I’m trying to tell you is that we were happy that night, happy. Yet the word is too homely to describe what we felt.
We opened more beers; empty bottles collected beside the Sacred Heart candle on the night table. José Luis said, mornings smell like this in Salvador, like soaked earth. He said, someday I’ll take you there, you would love the mornings. Your father had never said anything like this before. It was beautiful, outrageous, and we knew it would come to pass. We laughed, peaceful as oracles who know precisely how things will turn out and so are free to leave the logistics to God. José Luis may have said other things, I don’t remember. But slowly, silence hadits way with us. You’ll see how it is someday when you fall in love. For several weeks our love had been quiet as circles radiating outward in a pond. We had forgotten the sound of the stone that started it all.
You see, your father had become my friend. No, I didn’t know his real name, but he had ceased to be a stranger. The drives to Old Town, washing the floor, cleaning beans. The most mundane tasks made us real to one another. You’ll know what I mean if you ever marry and stay in love. And so that night we loved one another, simply. There were no exploding stars, no insatiable hungers. We embraced with our whole bodies; we were like two hands clasped in a prayer of gratitude to the universe. Mijito, this is the night you were conceived. You were loved into being by a woman and man who, despite all the world can do to people, set aside their fears long enough to wonder at spring rain in October.
You need to know all this because I don’t want you to be frightened by what happenednext. We got up and put on sweatshirts because the air had begun to thin. The window was cracked open and José Luis closed it, turned the tape over. He turned around and looked at me; it was my favorite song. Something about how you’re the only thing in the world that I need, that I’ll ever need. Standing there below the window, crossed with bars of shadow and light, José Luis was handsome as a god. I watched him, wanted him all over again. At that moment, I don’t know why, I remembered an invitation we had received in the mail the day before. I said, we’ve been invited over for supper by one of the Quakers. I know you remember her. She translated for you
You see those marks under the brass handle of your top drawer? That was where we snapped open beer bottles before we sat on the bed and toasted El Salvador. Your father was as dark as you, very handsome. He had found extra work tarring roofs; the autumn sun got under his skin and stayed there. He wore patched jeans, no shirt, a St. Jude medal on a chain around his neck. He took my breath away; I’m not embarrassed to tell you this. He leaned up against the headboard, smiled for no reason. His face did not flicker with a thousand emotions like yours does; it was an event when he smiled. We held hands,watched the moon disappear behind clouds, then reappear in the basement window. The lace curtain you used to think was so “girlish” was parted; I had hung it to soften the wrought iron bars that protected the glass. For some reason José Luis got it into his head to teach me how to blow on the lip of the beer bottle, to create the sound of wood flutes he said were played in the Andes. What I’m trying to tell you is that we were happy that night, happy. Yet the word is too homely to describe what we felt.
We opened more beers; empty bottles collected beside the Sacred Heart candle on the night table. José Luis said, mornings smell like this in Salvador, like soaked earth. He said, someday I’ll take you there, you would love the mornings. Your father had never said anything like this before. It was beautiful, outrageous, and we knew it would come to pass. We laughed, peaceful as oracles who know precisely how things will turn out and so are free to leave the logistics to God. José Luis may have said other things, I don’t remember. But slowly, silence hadits way with us. You’ll see how it is someday when you fall in love. For several weeks our love had been quiet as circles radiating outward in a pond. We had forgotten the sound of the stone that started it all.
You see, your father had become my friend. No, I didn’t know his real name, but he had ceased to be a stranger. The drives to Old Town, washing the floor, cleaning beans. The most mundane tasks made us real to one another. You’ll know what I mean if you ever marry and stay in love. And so that night we loved one another, simply. There were no exploding stars, no insatiable hungers. We embraced with our whole bodies; we were like two hands clasped in a prayer of gratitude to the universe. Mijito, this is the night you were conceived. You were loved into being by a woman and man who, despite all the world can do to people, set aside their fears long enough to wonder at spring rain in October.
You need to know all this because I don’t want you to be frightened by what happenednext. We got up and put on sweatshirts because the air had begun to thin. The window was cracked open and José Luis closed it, turned the tape over. He turned around and looked at me; it was my favorite song. Something about how you’re the only thing in the world that I need, that I’ll ever need. Standing there below the window, crossed with bars of shadow and light, José Luis was handsome as a god. I watched him, wanted him all over again. At that moment, I don’t know why, I remembered an invitation we had received in the mail the day before. I said, we’ve been invited over for supper by one of the Quakers. I know you remember her. She translated for you
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