By Justine C. Tajonera
You loved the work of Marc Chagall. I have
Paris Through The Window on my desktop. My favorite
paintings of yours are of a tree and the one with
you outside the gate of a house. Or perhaps, that
was me, locked out of your embrace after I realized
you had died. I remember the bright blueness
surrounding the house, the gate, the woman.
I used to listen to your vinyl mood music records
when I was in grade school. I imagined you listening
to them. I watch my daughter now. She's almost three,
my age when I lost you. I imagine you dressing me
in smocked dresses and fussing over my hair.
I remember how you put Betadine on my imaginary
wounds the way I now apply the antiseptic
on your granddaughter's imaginary scratches.
I could write poems for you, for every year after
I had to live without you. I could go on and on.
But there aren't enough words. I close my eyes. I go
into the closet again, the one where we put your large
framed photograph. I forgot the prayers I used to pray in
in that darkness. I just wanted to be close to you.
I come out to embrace my daughter and
all the years we will have.
|Ditas (August 25, 1948 - April 19, 1978)|