Alternative Family
In the photograph, Aunt Donna is very, very pregnant. My mother is not. I look up at my mom and she is crying—silently, with her hand over her mouth. I just make it to the bathroom before I lose my breakfast, my lunch and my mind.
En la fotografía, mi tía Donna está embarazada, muy embarazada. Mi madre no lo está. Miro a mi madre que llora en silencio con una mano sobre la boca. Llego al baño justo antes de vomitar el desayuno y el almuerzo, y antes de perder completamente la razón.
"No. It's not okay. You're not going." He used the voice.
"Excuse me?" "You can't tell me what to do!"
"Oh yes I can—I'm your father!"
"Since when?"
My mother might be dead, but she was still my mother. I knew that, even if my dad seemed to have forgotten.
I can't resist tossing a few simple tricks—rock the baby, elevator, tidal wave. My hands whir, my arms loosen up. I've only practiced at home, but this feels pretty fine. I take up more of the sidewalk. People weave around me, staying clear of the yo-yo as it extends and then glides back. There's only me and the yo-yo working with the noise and confusion of the street corner.
