Demasiado tiempo
The letters do not recognize me. They gather into words, whispering, wary of my approach. I am a stranger they struggle to recognize through eyes clouded with absence and neglect. They trace the lines of my fingertips, slowly settling into the lines of palms that promise to hold them more gently, more closely, to not let them slip like grains of sand through hands too young to appreciate them. Time places heavy kisses on my knuckles, one by one by one and my elbows feel awkward against this new table. My knees should be crossed and propped perfectly into the familiar corners under my desk. A desk now covered by pictures of faces foreign to mine, mementos of memories I did not make, homework that is not mine to finish before the sun rises. But those used to be crooked smiles of my parents, bracelets that adorned my wrists through adventures, notes of Spanglish from dear friends, mugs of tea carefully steeped by a woman who made herself my mother. My forearms ache for the strength ...