My response to the Neruda sonnet below:

I love you not like a handful of rose petals
or a flash of lighting that ignites fire
I love you as one would the obscure
hidden in my soul by shadows
I love you like a flower not yet in bloom
whose furtive beauty lies within
I love you without knowing how or why or where
without problems or pride
because there is no other way for me
for us to be
so close that my eyes close with your sleep
and my hand resting on your chest is your heartbeat

-Idalmis

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal,
topacioo flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta
que no florece y llevadentro de sí,
escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro
en mi cuerpoel apretado aroma
que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo,
ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
-Pablo Neruda

Before you, nothing was mine
I walked through abandoned streets
with only the company of the moonlight
Smiles were counterfeit
Laughter was empty
Nothing had purpose
The world held its breath with anticipation
Everything belonged to no one
Everywhere was foreign
Everyone was deaf, blind, mute
Until your tender beauty
made my heart beat anew
-Idalmis

Antes de amarte, amor, nada era mío:
vacilé por las calles y las cosas:
nada contaba ni tenía nombre:
el mundo era del aire que esperaba.
Yo conocí salones cenicientos,
túneles habitados por la luna,
hangares crueles que se despedían,
preguntas que insistían en la arena.
Todo estaba vacío, muerto y mudo,
caído, abandonado y decaído,
todo era inalienablemente ajeno,
todo era de los otros y de nadie,
hasta que tu belleza y tu pobreza
llenaron el otoño de regalos.
-Neruda

This isn't my usual format. It's not a poem or a story, just a post about the day I decided I would never fall in love. I think I was 19 years old when I made that decision. I told my best friend who would subsequently become my boyfriend that I never wanted to fall in love with anyone. There was no such thing as love, everyone you love leaves. All love ends badly and the very person that loves you the most is often the one to betray you. For me it was too much. I vowed to never be the one who had their heart broken. He just sort of looked at me and asked that I not lose hope completely because love can work out and it could between us if I gave him a chance. He waited for that chance for two years. After a while I was tired of fighting it; I had to be with someone. He was a great person that I trusted. We had so much in common; he was my best friend. But I knew I would never fall in love with him. This was safe. My heart was safe with him.

My notion about love started when I was a little girl. Much like any other little girl, I read fairytales and believed that someday prince charming would come and save me. He would sweep me off my feet and I would be in ecstasy for the rest of my life, happily ever after. But it didn't make sense to me. No one ever seemed to live happily ever after. There were arguments, affairs, drugs, alcohol, deception and just plain boredom. I recall the day my mother told me she had never really loved my father. I was about 10 years old and had just gotten home from school. My mother was kneeling at the foot of her bed praying with the bible open. She cried uncontrollably and asked that I kneel and pray next to her. This is when she told me how unhappy she was. She told me how much she loved my sister and I but despite that her life didn't seem to have any purpose or feeling. She said she thought about dying a lot and she was so afraid. She said she was not in love with my father. After that day she began seeing a therapist. One day she came home and told me that she never was in love with my father. She said she felt like he was her brother. He was a good man and a great father but her life with him was empty. And it made sense from then on why she always spoke of her first boyfriend in Cuba and how much she loved him. He was a womanizer and her parents sent my mother to the US to get away from him. But after twenty years, she loved him still. And from that day forward I realized my father was desperately in love with a woman who would never be his. A woman who stayed out of gratitude, for the sake of the children, because their home life was stable. From that day forward I realized that in a relationship there is always one person who is the sucker. That was my father. And I loved him so much that it broke my heart to think of him in that way. I think that is how I lost all faith in love. I never wanted to be pitied or lied to. When you love someone you are weak. Sometimes you are blind to the truth, yet other times you know exactly what the truth is and overlook it. Love makes people do crazy things. I could not let myself lose control.

So I lived my life like that for several years. I could have done that forever. It was comfortable and safe. I never worried about my heart. I knew it would never be broken. BUt I guess the joke was on me. I foreshadowed my own life. I betrayed the person that loved me the most. But the thing of it was, I couldn't help it. I met someone who turned everything inside of me upside down. I met someone else who made me questions my notions about love. From the moment I saw him, I had no other choice. I was drawn to him; I felt as if I was fulfilling my destiny.
I was for the first time willing to take the risk of heartbreak. It just had to be done.

The saddest part of life is that nothing ever lasts. Nothing good lasts. Everything good in life fades; we hold onto happiness for a fleeting moment. What we are left with is our memories. The most painful ones are of things we have cherished that are no longer ours. I haven't decided what my answer is to the age old question, "Is it better to have loved and lost that to have never loved at all?" I'm still working that one out.

With eyes closed
I gave my heart
to a butcher
And was surprised
when he sold it by the pound
to lusty housewives
trapped in sexless marriages
I watched from the back room
I turned a blind eye
Truth is never any fun
The butcher had a way with meat
and still had what was left of my heart
I planned to buy it back
Instead I gave my hands
My legs
My lips
My ears
I even gave my eyes
without my heart they’re useless
You’re making a mistake, he says,
with all my parts in tow
I know
There was no other way for it to go

Sabella



At my father’s funeral I got countless hugs. Faceless arms embraced me then disappeared, leaving me propped up in the funeral parlor’s upholstered chair. My arms were awkwardly placed on the wooden arm rests, my head hung over the headrest. My eyes seemed to be holding up the world. The relentless hugs continued, meant to convey empathy or compassion, but I felt none of those. I was disconnected from the world and it seemed I had walked into someone else’s eerie dream.

There was only one hug I remember. From this man who had married the daughter of a friend of my father’s. Someone completely random who I could not know had cared. He grabbed onto me and held me tightly with both arms. He was fighting for me to feel again. He was grasping on to whatever was left of me in this world. He had the intensity that could have brought maybe even my father back. He cried and held me. I could not cry. He let go and stroked my hair. For a second I thought, I am going to need another father. He moved on to hug my sister. I looked at her and wondered if she felt his hug the way I had. I couldn’t really tell. I didn’t ask, although I wanted to, who this man had lost and why he understood how important a good hug was.

So there I was, after the only hug that mattered, slumped again in my chair. Some relatives walked right past me and hugged my sister’s friend, who looked like what I should have. She didn’t bother to correct them; I guess she could tell I’d had enough hugs. My aunt kept offering me cookies. She was worried I wasn’t eating and had gotten too thin. I kept taking the cookies to appease her, but instead would place them in random women’s purses. My sister saw me doing this and we both laughed. I could imagine a distant cousin going through her purse at home, wondering how she got a pink leaf shaped cookie in her purse. It was odd I still remembered how to laugh.

I had a fever since the day I was told my father was missing. All day I’d had the feeling I was going to be sick. I had gotten through the majority of the day with no bad news and I really thought I was in the clear, until the phone rang and I was told he was missing. I was optimistic, perhaps he had gotten lost on his way home from work, or had gotten into an accident or maybe he was having an affair. That would have been the best news. I spent no more than a half hour in limbo. The next time the phone rang, the world was pulled out from under me. I sort of looked around and lost my understanding of dimensions. This world, this reality seemed two dimensional yet there was no more gravity and it seemed I floated in mid air. I didn’t know how to feel. I reacted the way people do on TV or in movies, but I could not cry.

My friend drove me to my parents house. I had packed a bag of clothes, a sea of black. Clothes for the wake, clothes for the funeral, my hairdryer. I got to my house, but instead walked to the place where the neighbor had found my father. Police were there now. I told them he was my father. I told them I wanted to see him, to see his body in the garage where he had climbed atop his car, fashioned a noose out of rope he bought and hung himself. Although I pleaded, they would not let me see him. I thought images of my father’s lifeless face and swaying loafers could torment and haunt me. Then maybe I could cry. “Sometimes,” I said, “you need to see the very worst or you will not believe it.” They didn’t see it that way. I was escorted back to my house and into my family’s grief stricken arms. And there I was, with nothing except a fever. I heard repeatedly, “She is so strong.” I had them fooled. I was not strong. My sister or my mother were stronger than I. They could break down and cry and scream and yell and just fall apart. I could not do anything. I slept when no one else could. Then there was that fever. The doctor said it was situational.

Days blended into themselves. Time passed, as it does, and in my mind all I kept repeating was, “This too shall pass.” But I don’t think that’s really true. To the funeral, I wore this dress I had bought in the summer. I had thought it was so elegant and mature, a black fitted dress to the knee with buttons down the back, something worthy of Audrey Hepburn. This was the last place I thought I would wear it. There were so many people there. I could not make out any of their faces. I guess they had cared about my father in one way or another. What was there to talk about, but what should not have been. Good Christians were concerned about his soul. My mother’s priest said a few words about the Church and how it can consider suicide a form of mental illness. We prayed for my father’s soul. This seemed to appease the Christians. But I knew my father’s soul would be fine. He had been the kindest man I had ever known. He would give of himself until there was nothing left. It occurred to me that had been the problem. He had nothing left for himself.

I walked over to the casket and placed two things in his suit pocket. One was a picture of me at five years old. I looked just like him. I was daddy’s little girl back then. The other was a letter I had written, telling my father that I would forgive him. I couldn’t be angry at him, I couldn’t hold him back. He wanted to be gone and I could understand it. The last thing I remember thinking was: What makes people cry is what someone’s suicide says about them. That they were not there for that person, that they did not love them enough, that they could do nothing to stop them. Then the image of the dysfunctional family: a severed limb. When someone asks how your father died, what can you say?

There are things that happen to you, that cannot be erased. Images are burned into the inside of your eyes forever. So when you close your eyes it is etched there, it is all you see. But the funny thing is, you can see yourself in that image, as if you were looking at a picture. My image is of the cemetery. My father’s casket being lowered into the ground. I threw in a rose and a handful of dirt. From now on, this is my father. There will always be six feet of dirt between us. I will never hear his laugh or how he clapped his hands when he was really excited. I will never hear him make up another funny name for people he didn’t know. He will never watch me get my first job, my first paycheck. He will never see me get my heart broken for the first time. He will never walk me down the aisle or see his grandchild’s face. He will never lose more of his hair or get older, or have to watch his face wither away. He will never have to worry about paying another bill or finding a new job or taking care of his wife in old age. He will never have to worry about losing someone he loved. I get it, daddy, life is unpredictable and frightening. You can never control it. And most days it seems there will never be anything to look forward to.


What is it now, eight weeks later? I am alive. I function. I eat and sleep. I shower, I go to class. I am awake. I think of him. I think of him. I think of him. I make myself sick thinking of him. I want an answer. I want to know why or what he was thinking. I imagine how scared he was. He must have been sweating. How long had he planned it? Did he know when he dropped me off at school, it would be the last time he would see me? Why couldn’t he wait just to say goodbye to me? One last time. He always said he would not do what his father had done. It seems he had forgotten that. Nothing seems to make sense to me. I read the same page in a book countless times. I have the same conversations. There is nothing else to think of. I counted once the amount of times I think of him in an hour. It averaged about once a minute. There is nothing more to do. I look for ways to distract myself. I try friends, but they cannot seem to handle what I have to say about my father. I try liquor, but it only makes me think of him more. I try sex, but my boyfriend is tired and always falling asleep on me. I know, I tend to do things in excess.

I started seeing a therapist, his name is Frank. He is a graduate student. He is a nice man, older and just sits and listens to everything I say. I always look forward to seeing him. I can talk to him about anything except sex because he reminds me of Mr. Rogers. I am never wrong in Frank’s office. I tell him about my father, my fear that I will end up like him one day. I cannot show emotion, I say, I never feel anything. I see Frank once a week, at least for the next six months, he says. I keep thinking still, I will need a new father.

After therapy I go home, it’s only about a two block walk. I walk upstairs to my bedroom and sink into bed. My boyfriend will not be home for five hours. I make myself dizzy thinking about my father. I fall asleep and I dream that it was all a hoax. My father is alive; his suicide a childhood nightmare. But I keep looking at his neck, still red and bruised from the rope. I feel an overwhelming sense of dread and responsibility. I cannot watch him all the time. He will try again and I will lose him. I am helpless. This overwhelming angst is what finally awakens me. I remember that as a little girl I was always plagued by dreams of my father’s death. I would toss and turn and wake up crying, sure he was dead. But I could always run into my parent’s room and see him peacefully sleeping on his flat pillow. It was the most relief I have ever felt. But now, this was not a dream and no matter what I did, I could not run into my parent’s room to find my father. This feeling of endless weight on my chest will never subside. I cannot run anywhere to find my father, except the Weehawken Cemetery nearly an hour away.

I wonder now if my father understands who I am. I always felt we could only have a superficial relationship. We were as different as two similar people can be. We grew up in different worlds. We had seen different things. We spoke different languages. I could not get across the subtle undertones of language in Spanish. I could not explain to him why I named my cat Vonnegut, or how I read 1984 as a love story. He would not have understood why poetry made me cry or why I paid sixty dollars for a Nine Inch Nails ticket. But now, I wonder if he does. If he sees me, for all the things I am or intend to be. He must see everything I have done, to be proud of or ashamed, things I wish no one had seen or things everyone should have. He must laugh when I sing karaoke, or when I reach for the first piece of bread. He must turn away when I’m in the shower or having sex. I do not know how it all works. If he is watching me at all, or if he has long been gone. I keep hoping to feel his presence. I keep waiting for a sign. It hasn’t happened yet.

I have not lost my desire for sex. Actually, the more sex I have, the more I want. It seems to be the only time I can think of something else. It is a bodily function like using the bathroom or scratching an itch, I guess. It is the most connected two people can be, at least for a short while. I am desperate to feel connected to anyone. I think sex is as close to love as I can come. I wonder why sex is so much easier than love. I can let you inside my body, I can put myself in the most compromising positions, but I will never give my heart. I do not believe in love anymore. In my short time, I have noticed that everyone you love leaves, everything that makes you feel good goes away. I will not let myself love.

Chris walks in the room.

“Long day at work?” I look at him and smile. I am wearing a red negligee.

Chris barely notices. “Yeah, actually. I am beat now. There was an accident on the parkway, too.”

Chris reaches for the bag of Wendy’s he’d bought on his way home. He eats a cheeseburger fries and coke. He tries to make idle chatter in between bites of food. I try to play footsy with him and drape myself across his lap suggestively. He sort of waves me off to the side and reaches for another french fry. Soon after he has devoured his meal, he falls asleep on the bed. And I am left, feeling less desirable than a value meal.
I am alone again, just as I was all day. There is nothing left for me to feel, but the overwhelming pain in my chest. I cannot breathe. I lay in bed, watching the walls. It seems the walls are breathing, inhaling peace easier than I. The room has plans of suffocating me. Window panes whisper I am not enough. The bed scorns me, wanting Chris for itself. Chris peacefully sleeps, neglecting to tell me, “Trees will miss you if you go.” There is nothing left for me in this room. I go downstairs to the living room and curl up in a little ball on the couch. I cannot let myself cry.

I am stuck here, having to muddle through this on my own. There is no choice but to lose sleep. There is no other way through this, except to feel. Eventually I have to cry. But if I start, it will never stop. I will cry forever because things will never be the same.
I am afraid of becoming my father. One day, if I lose myself, I will forget everything that mattered to me. I will forget my sister, my mother, my beautiful nieces. I will forget about sex, chocolate, the smell of the beach, buying new shoes. I will forget that happiness exists. For someone like my father, like me, there is only this moment; there is only today. What we want now. There is no such thing as tomorrow. To us the future and past are the same, images that can be just as easily considered dreams rather than memories. I can imagine what will happen tomorrow just as easily as I recall what happened yesterday. They are ghosts. It is as if nothing ever happened that is not happening now. I am a goldfish forced to relive my father’s death every few seconds. I live in small doses; I only do what I have to, to get by. This will all catch up with me. Not tonight, tomorrow maybe, next year, ten years from now. I cannot change who I was made to be. I cannot change the will of my father, his father, his father before him. I have no brothers. I come as close to my father as was meant. This is fate and I cannot mess with it.

I start to wonder how it will end for me. I could not use a rope or a knife or a gun. I could not jump off anything or wreck my car. I could not turn on the gas or slit my wrists. I figure I will take sleeping pills when I am ready. I can sleep forever. I won’t have to feel anything. I understand I have made this choice for my future. I choose when I go. I will always be the same age. Today is not the day though. There are still things for me to do.

Lilly


Lilly looked at herself in the mirror. She rubbed her eyes, almost as if to erase the image before her. No such luck, she thought. This is me. She bent over the sink and began rubbing her face with a bar of soap her mother had taken from last year’s trip to Florida. She rinsed and grabbed a once white towel from the rod next to the sink. Lilly reached over into the shoebox that carried her toiletries. She grabbed a brown wooden brush and combed out her hair. She decided it was a good day to wear her hair up. She grabbed a pink ruffled scrunchy from the shoebox and pulled her hair atop her head. She proceeded to tease her bangs and spray on several layers of Stiff Stuff. Her bangs would not budge. It was time for her makeup now. She smeared on a coat of powder foundation. She parted her lips and glossed on a shade called cotton candy. She added some hot pink blush and drew in a thick blue line around her eyes. This was the way she had always done her makeup, since she was thirteen. It was the only way she knew how. She turned her back to the mirror and started to undress. She looked at the scale, but decided against weighing herself. I already know I’m fat. She put on a pair of white stockings and her crisp white uniform. This remained white because her mother washed it regularly. She could never figure out how her mother managed to do it. Lilly looked at her brown leather wristwatch. It was almost time for her father to pick her up. She heard the car horn outside, grabbed her purse and trotted down the stairs.
Another day.

“How are you feeling today, princess?” Lilly’s father looked at her with wide eyes and a hopeful smile. He sat in the driver’s seat of his four-door Corolla. He had paid cash for it. He was an old man now. But you could tell he had once really been something. This is the last man who will ever love me.

“I’m OK, Pa, could be doing better. I think I’m coming down with the stomach flu.” She lied and was sure her father knew, but neither could admit to that.

“Oh well, mija, you better take care of yourself. I hope you are feeling better by the time your aunt and cousins come this afternoon.” Somehow Fernando knew she would just run right upstairs to her room and hibernate. She had been doing so for the last five years. He didn’t think the family believed any excuses he made for Lilly anymore. But he still tried. This is my little girl.

“I hope so, Pa. I’ve missed Tia Martha. I would love to see her and mis primitas." They remained quiet the rest of the way. Lilly stared out the window looking past her reflection in the window. Her father pulled up to the ten story brick building. "Ok well thanks for the ride pa, pick me up at 3pm.” Lilly kissed her father’s cheek and hurried out of the car. She slammed the door behind her and didn’t look back. She was at work now and was a different person.


Lilly walked into the building. She greeted the doorman; he always asked if she had a case of the Mondays or Tuesdays or Wednesdays, depending on the day. Today was Sunday and she guessed she did have a bad case of it. She walked toward the elevator and pushed the up button. Most days she pretended the man of her dreams was on his way down to see her. Today, Tommy walked out. He was close enough, but never even noticed she was alive. She had loved him since she was a little girl. She’d had him, too, and for a short while she managed to be his one. Today she was no one to him and she preferred it that way. She was ashamed for people to see her now. Lilly arrived at the seventh floor in no time. She greeted the nurses and put her bag down at her desk. She had to do rounds first thing in the morning. There were patients she had to make sure were up, bathed, dressed and ready for breakfast. It was her job to make sure their needs were met. They were discarded, unloved or unwanted. No one ever came to visit these grandparents, great aunts and uncles - the entirely disconnected. I might as well be one of them.

At around twelve, Lilly told her supervisor she wasn’t feeling well and was going home. She lied, but she needed to prepare for the afternoon. She walked a couple of blocks to the local McDonald’s. Most days her father brought lunch right to her; it was always the same: a Big Mac, fries and a Coke. Today she had to walk there because her parents had company. It was the most anticipation she had felt in a long time. She walked into the McDonald’s and remembered why she made her father bring it to her. There was always the same group of people there; she hadn’t wanted to become one of them, people who had no one to love them, nothing to do. There was one older man sitting in the corner with a super sized Coke. He was dressed like a monk and had several Ankhs around his neck. She overheard him telling another man that he was the son of God and his father was sending him messages at the McDonald's, which is why he had to be there everyday. The monk got up and went to the bathroom, leaving his Coke unattended. If Lilly thought about what she looked like amongst them, she might have never come back. She preferred to pity the people there and not have to look at them. She ordered her food and sat silently in a corner. Eating was as close as she could come now to feeling good. It was the last thing she had left.

Lilly slipped a small flask out of her purse and poured colorless alcohol into her Coke cup. She had put vodka in there last night. I should have just had it straight up. She had a few other small bottles of liquor in her purse. She’d picked them up yesterday before her father picked her up at work. She’ thought she had bought some rum and rummaged through her purse for it. Once she found it, she downed that. She sat there awhile and watched the world rotate around her. She got up and made her way to the bathroom to touch up her make up before leaving. More pink gloss and some blue eyeliner was all she needed; she figured she could blend right into the masses. On her way out she overheard the monk arguing with the manager over his Coke. The manager had thrown it out before he was finished with it. The monk told the manager that God would punish him. Just as Lilly was stumbling out of the McDonald’s, the monk was banned from ever returning to his sanctuary. Lilly thought that was the lowest any human could go as she staggered down the street, bumping into light posts and mailboxes along the way. Her eyes were half closed and she barely made it back to the hospital. She waited outside for a few minutes in a daze until her dad showed up. It was three o’clock already and she could not say where the day had gone.

“Jesus, you look terrible sweetie. That stomach flu is really kicking in now, huh?” Just ignore the alcohol on her breath. “We better get you home. Your aunt and cousins are already there. They can’t wait to see you.”

Lilly didn’t say a word. She didn’t want to say or do anything. She wanted to get into bed, pull the covers over her head and disappear. She could always feel protected by her comforter. She dragged herself up the stairs, and greeted her family from afar.
“Hi everyone, don’t want to kiss you, I might be contagious.” She didn’t even excuse herself. She just went right upstairs and locked herself in her room. To be honest, she couldn’t stand to look at her cousins, Milena and Sabella. When they were younger, they had looked up to her. Now they just sort of looked at her with pity in their eyes. It wasn’t anything they said, but she could recognize that look. She had gotten it enough lately. But it wasn’t just their knowing looks. They were so beautiful and young and bounded through life with anticipation. Their lives were better than hers. They had lovers, they had friends, they still had dreams and hope.

Lilly grabbed a bag of barbecue chips she had hidden under her bed. She got into bed and pulled her comforter up to her chest. Nearly all of her body was invisible now. She turned on the television and restlessly flipped through the channels. She stopped when she saw Emeril; he was her favorite cook. Her mind wasn’t on TV though; she couldn’t stop thinking about the night of her fifteenth birthday. Her parents had thrown her a big party at home. She had gotten the leather motorcycle jacket she wanted. She had eaten ice cream cake. She had at least twenty of her friends over. They even managed to sneak some rum from her parent’s liquor cabinet. She had decided that she would meet her friends at midnight around the block so they could sneak into a bar. She didn’t even sneak out of the house. At 11:45 she put on her new jacket, combed her long black hair and walked out the front door. Her parents sort of yelled in vain in the background. That night she got back home after 4am. Her parents had demanded to know where she was. She was too drunk and too tired to even give them an answer. After a few minutes, they gave up. She went to her room and passed out. No one ever questioned her about it again.

The thing that she could not get off her mind about that night was Tommy. She had met him at the local bar. He was 18, a senior at her school. He had beautiful green eyes and long dark brown hair. He was the boy everyone dreamed of having in high school. When she walked into the bar, he could not take his eyes off of her. It was as if she could walk because he willed it. He bought her a beer and told her she was so beautiful he felt it in the pit of his stomach. This had made her nauseous, but she hid it. Instead, she made jokes and laughed, smoked a cigarette – anything to appear unmoved. Tommy whispered in her ear, gently held her face in his hands and said, “I could disappear in your eyes.” She had wanted to laugh, never having thought men really spoke this way without a woman writing their lines. Instead she kissed him. When they kissed, she felt every part of her body ignite. There were goose bumps and tingles, an actual feeling coming up through her throat. Anticipation seeped out of every pore in her skin. “I want to take you somewhere. Can I take you somewhere?” And she agreed. She didn’t care what anyone else thought. She wanted to be with him, to feel alive, not only to feel passion and desire but actually achieve those things. So Tommy drove them to a not so far off place. He had let her have her choice of motels. She picked the Americana. Once inside she lay on the bed, not quite sure what to do. Tommy took of his clothes and stood naked at the foot of her bed. He had large muscular arms, a thick neck and a slightly round belly. Tommy got on top of her, one knee between her legs, his arms holding up the weight of his body. He leaned in and kissed her, slow, taunting kisses, bating her to search for more. He gently licked and bit her lower lip. He asked if it was okay to undress her, which she said was. He unbuttoned her blouse slowly, stopping to kiss her chest after each button was undone. He slid her pants and underwear off together, throwing them on the floor behind him. Tommy pressed his body against hers. His very weight against her was almost enough for her to orgasm. They made love. The entire time he looked into her eyes; he would not let her look away. Lilly did not think or worry if he would call her the next day, if he would tell his friends, or if this would end badly. There was no time in his arms, the world disappeared and his warmth was all she could feel.

She fell in love with his eyes, his breath, the taste of his skin. She would be his always.

Back to reality. It was all ages ago. She had loved him and lost. Lilly let the bag of chips fall off the bed and onto the floor. She reached into her bedside table drawer. She found a small bottle of little white pills and took two. This time it was Ambien. Between her doctor and the people at work, she had managed to get quite a few different kinds. She took a small bottle of rum out of the drawer, too, and washed down the pills. This would let her forget; this would finally let her sleep. Tomorrow maybe I will be someone else.

Sleep came quite easily. It was an escape for her, a chance to relive any part of her life. She could choose to be anyone she had been. This was the only part of the day she looked forward to. Yet even sleep, too, sometimes betrayed her. She would live out her nightmares. The nightmares were not fictional, either; they were things that had really happened. Tonight she had one about her ex-husband. She was sitting on the couch with a glass of watered down vodka. He looked at her with what she realized for the first time was disgust. He placed his hands behind his back and seemed to be playing with the pockets of his jeans.
"Lilly, I am going. What I mean is I'm leaving you. I met someone else and I believe I have fallen in love with her. This marriage has been dead for years. You numb that with alcohol. I've numbed it with weed. But for the first time in my life I feel something."
It seemed as if he had practiced that speech for months. He had every word down; he did not stutter and it was concise.
The world seemed to float away. Lilly could not feel her weight or the couch beneath her. She did not feel the glass in her hand. She stared at the melting ice in her drink. The ice hadn't frozen all the way through and there were little puddles of water inside it. She waited for the water to break through the ice and into her drink before she would speak.
She thought perhaps she would convince Bernie to see things her way. She had thought about this very thing in the shower just two days before. It seemed so obvious to her, but Bernie clearly hadn't gotten it. Lilly finally spoke.
"The grass isn't greener on the other side. It looks greener and richer and fuller. People are laughing on the other side, having picnics, spilling wine, making love. But the grass you are standing on is yours. You have nurtured it and watched it grow. You have taken care of it and it has taken care of you. You run your fingers through it, your bare feet walk on it. You have come to know each and every blade. You keep it looking fresh and new. No one can take this grass from you, it is yours. You built the fence around it. You chase your dog through it. It will never be your neighbor's. Yet on the other side of that fence, is your neighbor, coveting your grass. There is no difference between the two, but neither of you will ever be content with what you have. Can't you see that?"
But it was no use; Bernie hadn't heard one word she'd said. He looked at her blankly and blinked. He had been standing there out of respect for their seven year relationship.
"You keep the dog." He turned his back and walked out the front door. They were the last words she ever heard him speak.

Lilly awoke in a cold sweat. She looked at the clock; it was only eight. She couldn't hear any voices downstairs; she supposed her cousins had left. She got out of bed and stepped on the bag of BBQ chips she had let fall to the floor. She picked up the mostly empty bag and tossed it into her trash can. She was starved. She went downstairs to rummage through whatever was left of the family dinner. She walked to the living room; the lights were off. She opened the door to her parent's bedroom and found them fast asleep, holding hands. Lilly crept into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator; she helped herself to heaping portions of roasted pork, black rice and beans and yucca. She didn't want to wake her parents, so she decided to eat it cold. She put a two liter bottle of Coke under one arm and the salt shaker under the other and headed upstairs with her food. She ate quietly and quickly in bed. After five minutes, her plate was clean and her two liter was half empty. She passed out with a piece of pork on her cheek and rice kernels on her lap.



Fernando woke up at 5am; his wife was no longer in bed. He found her in the kitchen; making breakfast: a western omelet, toast, bacon and coffee. Ever since he had retired they seemed to spend most of their time eating, sleeping or making love. He was grateful for having found this woman whom he had been in love with for over 40 years. They ate at the kitchen table and talked about last night's family visit.
"My sister and her daughters seem to be doing so well. I was so worried about them after George died. But they look happy now for the first time in a long time. Milena and Sabella are such nice girls. They are so smart and hard-working; they really seem to have their lives together. I know George would be so proud of them."

"Yes, I know he would" Fernando seemed to be fixated on his worn slippers.

"Pa, what is the matter with you. You don't look like yourself. You haven't touched your food and you are just staring blankly into space."

Fernando's eyes watered. "It's just when I see them, I can't help but wish that Lilly had her life together. I always dreamed of having a daughter and I love Lilly with all my heart. It's just I dreamed of having a daughter like Milena or Sabella. And I am so embarrassed to admit it. I am ashamed to admit it."

Mirtha looked at him for a moment. She put her hand on top of his and sat silently. Her eyes teared up; she knew exactly what he meant. "Things will get better." She picked up the dishes and put them in the sink. Fernando had left nearly all of his breakfast. "Why don't you go and check on her. Ask her if she wants anything to eat."

Fernando went upstairs to Lilly's bedroom. He knocked lightly on the door before letting himself in. The television had been left on; there was an empty plate of food next to the bed and an empty coke bottle lay on the floor, knocked on its side. Lilly had kicked the sheets off of the bed. Her bloated stomach hung over her green leggings; her skin was dry and cracked, discolored stretch marks were etched onto her stomach. Fernando picked the blanket up off the floor and covered her. He stared at her for a while. How can I fix this? He picked up the plate of food, the empty bottle, her bag of garbage and walked downstairs. He would just let her sleep.

Lilly woke up at around 3pm to the sound of a baby crying. She supposed her brother Frank had come over with his perfect wife and daughter. Her niece was one now and had just learned to walk. They had named her Lizbeth which was Frank's nickname for Lilly.
And though she was flattered, it made her feel as if she were being replaced in his life, too. All she had left now was he mother and father. Lilly grabbed a piece of Big Red and put it in her mouth. She picked up her hair and quickly changed into a pair of black tights and an oversized black t shirt. At least she wouldn't look quite as fat. She went downstairs and into the living room, "Is that my little boop crying? What did you guys do to her? Oh it's okay honey, come to your aunt Lilly," Lilly reached out for Lizbeth, but before she could pick her up, Laurie stepped between them and picked her up off the floor. "Oh it's okay Lilly, she just fell trying to walk over to Fernando. She's okay. Anyway it's time for me to change her." Frank and Laurie exchanged a knowing look.

"Oh give me a break you guys. It's only 3pm; I just woke up. I'm fine. I haven't had anything to drink in months. You are being ridiculous! What the fuck?! I'm her aunt."

Frank stepped in "Lilly please lower your voice and watch your language around Lizbeth. And brush your teeth while you're at it. I can still smell last night's rum dinner." Frank walked out of the room, leaving Lilly standing there open mouthed. He was like a mirror, throwing back at her exactly what was right before everyone's eyes. But as much as it hurt, there was nothing she could do to change anything. Nothing anyone ever said changed her.

Lilly went into the bathroom to change for work. She worked the night shift today and was going to be late. Her father had offered to drive her, but she declined. She felt like taking the bus.
She walked about two blocks to the nearest bus stop. The bus arrived about five minutes later. As soon as she stepped onto the bus, she realized she had no intention of getting off at her stop. She supposed she would keep riding until someone told her to get off. For a short time she and several other people were thrown together with the same goal. She felt connected to the driver and the passengers; they were all trying to get somewhere. She knew as little about their destinations as she did about hers.

Lilly took a window seat at the rear of the bus. Once she was settled in her seat, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the window. She had black rusty nails imbedded into her gums, instead of sparkling white porcelain. She remembered her sister in law had made an appointment for her at the dentist; she had even taken the day off to give her a ride there. On the way, Laurie suggested Lilly go on one of those complete makeover shows. It was the first time she realized that everyone else noticed what a mess she really was. It felt as if someone had thrown a 14 pound bowling ball straight into her abdomen. She winced," I really don't want the entire country knowing my personal business. Thanks though."
Laurie responded, "I'm sorry, I was just trying to be helpful."
Once they arrived at the dentist's Laurie dropped her off outside the office, "Be back in an hour or so."

Lilly watched her drive off in her perfect Mercedes. She sat outside the dentist's office for two hours. To repair her would be like repairing a shattered porcelain with Krazy Glue. It was useless.

That was over two years ago now. Her family had given up trying to help now. They sort of observed her as they would a fatal car crash.

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?" Lilly was brought back from her daze.

"No." This man was sat next to her and for the first time she remembered she was a woman. He had a bald, shiny head and wore thin silver glasses. She couldn't tell if he had lost his hair or if he shaved on purpose, or perhaps it was some combination of both. He had on a black T shirt with dark blue jeans that had a hole over the left knee.

"You've been on this bus over an hour you know. For most of that time, you've just been staring out the window. What's on your mind, girl? Nothing like talking to a stranger to find yourself."

She smiled, making sure not to show teeth, "How would you know how long I've been on this bus, unless, you've been on it just as long."

"My name is Marco. This is what I do somedays. I people watch. Everyone has someplace to go. Everyone but you."

"And you."

"True. But this is your first time on this bus, right? And that makes for a far more interesting story. Why today?"

Lilly sat there with her mouth wide open. Who was this man who seemed to know everything about her? She thought about telling him to fuck off, but then she thought, why not? She had no one else to talk to.
"I usually get a ride to work, but I felt like taking the bus today. I just never got off at my stop. I should be at work, but that was no reason to get off."

"Get off. With me. That's a reason"

She didn't hesitate, "OK."



Lilly followed him off of the bus. She concentrated on the black backpack he had slung over one shoulder. The front flap was completely covered with buttons. The buttons were all different; it seemed as if he'd picked them up throughout his life; everything from the Grateful Dead to a Pro Choice button. She followed the buttons down the street to a run down bar in the middle of town. Marco opened the door for her, "Into the bunny hole Alice."

Lilly found her way to the back of the bar. She slipped into a booth by the bathrooms. Marco stopped at the bar before joining her; he brought back a pitcher of beer and two shots of tequila.

"You not having a drink?" he half smiled.

"You always drink that much?

"Mondays," He pushed the tequila shot over to her, "but not today. Today we both drink this much."

Lilly wondered how he knew about her. She wondered how he knew she would be on that bus, how he should sit next to her, how he knew she would come to that bar with him. He pushed a tequila shot over to her and motioned for her to drink.

Lilly put the glass to her lips. She swallowed it in one shot, drinking it as if it were water. She reached over the table and did the same with his shot.

"Somehow I knew. So what's your name Alice?"

"Lilly."

"That's pretty. Never met a Lilly before. So what's your story, Lilly? And don't give me that bullshit, I was born and raised in blank but now I live here and work there and my heart was broken story. That's everyone's story. What's your story?"

She could be honest for once. Marco was everyone to her yet no one, really. He had slipped through the crowds and presented himself to her. She knew he would just as easily turn his back and walk away from her, disappearing into the crowd. She was a wreck; who would stay to watch that?

"I've numbed myself for so long. I can't really feel anything anymore. I eat because I get full. I drink because I get drunk. I take pills because I get high. I've surrounded myself with shit for so long, I've turned into shit. And when you are shit, you might as well be invisible. Days are meaningless. Really I'm just waiting for something to stop me. I expect that means I'm waiting to die."

"So you just wait for things to happen to you. You only got off the bus because I came along and told you to?"

She nodded.

Marco got up and went to the bar. He brought over a bottle of tequila this time.

"You drink this with me because I am telling you to."



Lilly woke up with her cotton panties around one ankle. She smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. She opened her eyes and found herself naked in an unfamiliar room. It was dark still but she could see the outline of an arm chair over in the corner. There seemed to be a pile of clothes slung over the back. She propped herself up and leaned over one side of the bed. There was a pool of vomit at on the floor. She gagged and rolled over to the other side of the bed to get out. She hobbled over to the bathroom and flipped the light on. The fluorescent lighting only emphasized each line in her face, every crater. She flinched in response to her reflection. Her breasts hung down to her bellybutton. She looked down and realized she hadn't shaved her arms or legs in months. Her pubic hair was matted and covered in a white chalky substance. Her hair was in knots; her skin broken out. Her teeth were nearly gone. Fingernails were bitten down to the knuckle. She splashed her face with cold water and reached for a small washcloth. She soaked the washcloth in warm water and cleaned herself up a bit.

Lilly walked over to the dresser in the other room. There was no one else in the room with her. She found a pair of white boxer shorts on the dresser. She picked them up and found they had several holes in them and they were soiled; she threw them on the floor. She looked at the alarm clock next to the bed; it was only 11pm. She found her purse on the floor at the foot of the bed. Her wallet was gone; she'd only had twenty dollars in there. She could not remember how much time had passed. She did not know how long it had been since Marco had gone. She didn't know where she was or where she had been. She laughed; it seemed appropriate since she didn't know where she was going either.
She wondered if this was this rock bottom. If not, how much further would she have to go? She had no idea what that meant; what would happen to her, what she was capable of. Everyone she knew was millions of miles away. She reached into her purse and grabbed a bottle of tequila she had stowed away. She took a couple of small white pills. She lay back in bed and covered herself from head to toe. She slept. She could always sleep.