Her Only Son

When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.

Beautiful Mother

In and out of consciousness, before she left, she reached for her son, who wept with his head turned, and in that moment, she released all the pages of her depths, so that even in death, he could hold onto her; and with all the strength she had left, she lovingly whispered three words to him, while wiping away the tears of his weeping, in her last breaths.


I remember the words you spoke to me;
Many nights you cried. 
The pain of your weeping vividly echoes.
Your smile and laughter I also reminisce.
You were everything to me; Still you are.
If I could, I would collect your teardrops
And turn them into diamonds.
Your blood runs in me grandmother,
For you were both mother and father.
There are some things I must tell you.
In your last agonies you told me I was a good son;
I turned my head; tears streamed.
A woman of love; of generosity.
A beautiful angel you are, Constancia.

My abuela Constancia, 
In my mind you ride on golden chariots
Drawn by one thousand Arabian horses;  
Your Adornment in white is the fabric of the gods.
The rarest of diamonds grace your neck,
Earlobes and wrists.

I love you.