Panza

We feed a stray cat. I named her Panza, which means belly in Spanish. Panza is a female cat who comes twice a day for food and to hang out in our backyard. She lies down on our patio furniture as if she purchased it with her savings, she owns every inch of our deck. She struts, sunbathes, and scratches anything she can with ease, licking and sharpening her claws one after the other. One morning my husband confessed he fed the cat we had spotted for some weeks lying next to our tree. But this particular morning she came closer to the house while my husband did his yoga routine. She meowed at him through the glass door and he opened it to feed her cat food, an easy task since we already feed two indoor cats.

Needless to say she now comes daily, standing next to the same glass door with her impatient and demanding glare, tapping the glass if we dare to be slow. It’s been almost a year since she got this amazing deal, yet when we open the door and kneel to place her dish out she scurries away, all the attitude she throws at us protected by the glass door vanishes while she hides under the outdoor furniture. We thought her fear of us would eventually diminish. She occasionally lets us pet her, but she is not comfortable with either of us. It feels strange, mostly because our indoor cats are unusually friendly. How we wish she would get closer, but she will probably never warm up to us and it’s okay.

In fact it’s more than okay; I realize how much she reminds me of myself. How much I love people but how uncomfortable I can feel sometimes in social settings as if I need a glass between them and me, like Panza. Even though I don’t run under a couch like she does, and can carry on socially in a “normal” way, inside I do feel like hiding. Hiding myself from strangers, and even from people close to me. Only a handful of people outside my family truly know me. After years of hating myself for this, nowadays I prefer it that way.

What an ambitious goal to fully get to know oneself. It’s a work in progress for me, and today Panza has helped peel yet another layer by allowing me to see myself in her.

The Taming of the Beast

If I think of myself as a small girl I would never describe her as adventurous. I was often called shy and cautious. Perhaps I was perceived that way because I hid behind my mom’s skirt and my sister’s wit. 

Tucked away from view became my comfort zone, where I felt at ease, safe from the outer layers of a world unknown to me, a barren terrain I roamed in my imagination with frightening outcomes. If I dared venture outside I was sure a beast patiently awaited me. I knew of this beast because I saw him once. He was peeking outside my room at night, looking at me sleep. The low lights of the corridor shaped his silhouette standing on the corner of the door frame, perhaps crafting my nightmares while watching me dream. This same beast followed me as often as my shadow.

As I grew older and life pushed me outside the comforts of home and family, I happened to see him again. He would catch me off guard with his monstrous arms. I could hear the piercing sound his nails made when they clicked with each other. Was he savoring his victory as he hunted me? He robbed me of the freedom to be myself, leaving me depleted.

Healing from his wounds was never easy, the bleeding would stop but his sharp claws left scars that I can still see on my skin.

Yet to my surprise I kept exploring my world. To accomplish that, I had to shield myself, blending with what he did not understand, and therefore could not see. It took a long time to gather patches of courage here and there. Like walking through nature and gathering pine cones out of season, grabbing what was left by chance. Little by little I created an armor, and I was able to trick him.

With time, that survival mechanism fooled me into believing in my own strength, meaning I could build my own protection, an aura stronger than any trick. This made him move farther from me. I could still see him though, I was often scared he would run towards me unexpectedly. But he never has, yet he comes close when he smells the fear escaping my pores. But even then he doesn't seem as daring as he once did. Now, he seems farther away. I have to be honest: I wish I didn’t see him anymore, but he still lurks around. And sometimes I even think he is now the one afraid of me.

The Five Hundred Dollar Outfit

A $500 outfit, it’s still a sum today, but $500 in the early nineties, when I was only 19 years old, mwas a lot more money. Especially because I made a bit more than that in a month. But the occasion was important. It was an outfit for my first in-person audition, so it merited it. I used to attend John Casablanca’s Modeling School. I was so embarrassed to tell people about it then; I still am. They taught me and other unassuming girls how to walk on a catwalk, how to apply expensive makeup, that I bought with my savings, and some acting classes; the latter changed a part of my life in a good way, but that is a story for another day.

John Casablanca’s Modeling School would finance loans to girls for expensive modeling classes, knowing well they had no chance of making it in the modeling business. But this is not a rant; I don’t regret it. Yes, it was expensive, money I didn’t have, but I had fun. I learned how to apply makeup professionally, I found my love for fashion that led me to study fashion merchandising down the line, and most importantly, I got rid of my unibrow.

And so the day came for my first in-person audition on Miami Beach. I heard of this call on the radio, or did I read it in the newspaper? Upon arrival, I understood why they call this type of audition “cow calls.” There were hundreds of girls. These were the times when South Beach was the Mecca for models. You would see them walking on Ocean Drive like sightings of mermaids in the middle of the ocean.

And there I was, my 5’3” frame full of 6’ girly dreams. Little me in the middle of this cow call. I was not the only daring petite; there were all kinds and types of girls there, and each of us held a number we got at the entrance. I was wearing that $500 outfit I mentioned: a brown fitted suede vest with a silver thick zipper on the front and a pocket on the back, and fitted dress pants that opened up in a small bell bottom. My first designer purchase. Walking into Burdines, I never thought I would end up spending that kind of money. I probably paid with a check; I doubt I had a credit card then. I got caught up in a moment, one I concocted in my mind. And if you make up something in your mind, it merits a killer outfit a-par with the occasion.

That day I also paid my first valet parking fee in my short driving history. I didn’t want to get blisters walking blocks toward the hotel in killer heels. Did I mention they were platforms? Cow calls were usually held in conference rooms of hotels; this room was wide, with many tall white columns with an attempt at rococo on top that could have fooled a 19-year-old, less-traveled girl like me, if it wasn’t for the cheap carpet. I might have been young, but I had an eye for style.

If I went on my tippy toes and could manage to sway left and right between the sea of girls, at the very end of the room I could spot a long table with a few men and women with critical eyebrows. If by now the sea of cow-call girls was threatening to drown me, those critical eyebrows would certainly swallow me. Once each girl before me got seen by the table of discerning men and women, it finally was my turn. They spent about 5 seconds with me and maybe saw me for 2 of those, immediately writing quick notes on their pads. Yes, this is the ’90s, they were using real pads of paper and pens. One more second, and I got dismissed.

After that stressful experience, I got directed to another wide room where I and many others waited. By now, it had to be at least 2 hours that I had donated to this experience. In this room, we would wait even longer. I could see girls making friends with one another; some perhaps came together. I was not great at making friends that easily. I didn’t bring a book, and this time predated smartphones to use as a distraction. So I waited and observed, a common pastime of mine.

After what seemed like hours, a man entered the room swiftly. He seemed hot and bothered as he held a pad in his hand. He proceeded to explain, while he yelled at us, that the names of the girls he would read could go. And so he began with the letter A. My last name starts with B, so I knew if I got called, at least I wouldn’t have to wait until the end.

And the letter B started. My heart pounded so loud I thought everyone could hear it galloping. Then he said, “Ugh, what is this name?!” proceeding to butcher my last name, not uncommon, since my last name is unique. They all laughed, him and the sea of cow-call girls. I wanted to disappear. I watched and heard as girls cackled in what felt like slow motion. I pretended to look around to see who the girl with the hilarious last name was, just like they did, hoping to blend into the crowd. When he finally decided it was time to stop trying different ways to keep on butchering my last name, he wiped his tears of laughter and continued reading names on his list. Only then did I feel safe to slip away.

I wasn’t embarrassed at the mistake of my last name, my expensive outfit, the loan, the makeup, the valet fee, should I continue? I was mostly embarrassed at myself, embarrassed at my core, for daring to dream that big. As I got home, I entered the room I shared with my kid nephew; I lived with my brother and family. I put that outfit away and forgot about it, only to remember it every 1st of the month when I made the payment on my John Casablanca’s Modeling School loan. I’ll say it again: I don’t regret it. It taught me so much about myself, getting into debt, high-rate loans, designer clothes I couldn’t afford, and dreams. I should have worn that outfit hundreds of times to squeeze every penny out of it, but I put it away. I didn’t wear it again, ever.

Today, I realize that moment defined how I handle goals or dreams nowadays. As a creator, I see now that when I bring my creations out into the world, that moment haunts me. I feel I’m making a fool of myself for daring to have dreams and be seen. I’m in my fifties, and I still hear the laughter. I still pretend it’s not me they are laughing about; I pretend I’m laughing with them. Perhaps if I pretend, they won’t notice how much it hurts. But as much as that feeling tries to catch me each time, I still put myself out there, maybe even more because of it. I don’t let it get me for one reason only: if I do, it wins.

(Photograph free stock Pexels)

This One Is for You, Mom

As I was meditating, my mom came to mind. I saw her face. It took a minute, though; at first I felt her, but her human presence took longer to appear. A blur turned into her warm smile in front of my eyes, and I felt a long breath leave my body. The thought crossed my mind: What if I could not remember her face? Thank God for pictures and videos, I thought. I’ve heard people say that after years of their loved ones passing, details of their faces begin fading away.

And then, during meditation, she came in—not my mom, but a girl showed up. Her life appeared as if I was playing a movie, or watching life in front of me right before death.

This girl was young, very poor, and she did not live in the present time. There were no smartphones, Wi-Fi, not even cameras invented yet. She made little money working day and night as a maid, but that secured her a roof over her head and three meals a day. On Sundays, her only day off, she would go to church and pray. She thanked the Lord she was kept by the family her mom worked for. They were kind to her, and her family had worked in their home for generations. The daily routine was demanding, and all days seemed the same—up at dawn and to bed after the family had settled in at night. There was no time to grieve her mother’s passing. There were some nights when she cried all night, curled in a wool blanket her mother knit for her. She couldn’t afford to think of her and how much she missed her. Life moved fast for her; it was really moving past her.

One Sunday at church, she felt her mother’s hand caressing hers, as she often did when they sat next to one another on those big, cold wooden benches. Her mom often touched her slowly when her eyes drifted to the tall church ceilings. She did this when the sermons felt longer than usual. Her mom’s warm touch would bring her back to reality.

And now, on this particular Sunday, her mind drifted away to the top of the ceiling, right where the chandeliers met the bolts holding their weight. She thought that if it wasn’t for that bolt, it would all come crumbling down. She wondered if the sermon talked about the strength of that small bolt holding it all together from crashing down, she would be far more interested. And it is no coincidence that she felt her mother’s touch then. This time it was different; when the memory came to her, she couldn’t see her face. She couldn’t remember her eyes, her mouth, her hair. How could she forget her smile?

Years passed by, and she made her own family. The struggles she lived as a child and youth subsided. She was lucky to find a good man who provided for her and their daughters so they didn’t have to live the sacrifices their grandmother and she did. And as she grew older, she lost her husband, and her daughters took care of her. One of them took her into her home. She served her day and night, as she once did for the family she worked for. One morning, she felt a cold breeze sneak through the wooden windows, and her daughter noticed when she heard the cracking of the old frames. She came to warm her up with that wool blanket, the one her mother made for her; it was the only one that kept her warm on days like this. As she came close to lay it on top, she saw her—not her daughter. She saw her mother: her smile, her eyes, her hair so soft, her cheeks so bright. Her mom looked at her and grabbed her hand like when they sat at the cold church. Her mother wanted to call her attention, I guess, but she was in awe of her face. I see you, Mom, she said. I see you again.

The Invisibility Cloak

At the beginning of the year, I attended a spiritual workshop. During the retreat, the moderator spoke about the different types of mirrors in life. Among many things, she explained how sometimes, when we meet someone who becomes close to us, what attracts us at first may be something we believe we’ve lost within ourselves—or something we think we don’t have at all. Discovering it in another is a way of reclaiming it.

My eyes were closed as I absorbed this idea when she instructed us to think of a characteristic that came to mind when we thought of a close person in our lives. If the connection was romantic, she asked us to put aside looks and attraction and focus on more practical qualities. I immediately thought of my husband and the many things I was drawn to when we first met, but one stood above the rest: his discipline.

My husband’s discipline is worthy of admiration. If discipline were a person, his would be carried on shoulders after scoring a goal in a stadium; mine, on the other hand, would be met with a chorus of boos. This isn’t self-deprecation, nor am I fishing for encouragement. It’s simply a fact—at least so far in my life. Discipline and I don’t have a lovely relationship. It’s mostly love and hate. When I’m disciplined, I love myself, and when I’m not… well.

He has it—discipline in his art, his work, and his spiritual practice. I thought about how incredible it feels to meditate, to write, to connect with myself, and how little I actually practice those things. And how he, rain or shine, sick or sad, gets out of bed at 6 a.m. every single day for his yoga practice. Meanwhile, I can think of many—trust me, many—reasons not to do what I know makes me feel whole.

So I said to myself, I like this mirror, and I’m claiming it. I will practice yoga with him, rain or shine. Let me clarify: in Miami, “shine” can mean 98-degree weather that feels like 104 with humidity. Just saying.

Proudly, I decided to join him every morning, waking up at dawn when my entire body feels made of lead—bricks tied to my ankles, like I’m about to be dropped into the ocean by a mafioso with a heavy Jersey accent. Moving feels nearly impossible, but I rally.

On weekdays, his yoga practice is at home. I place my mat behind him and shadow his movements as best I can, struggling to keep my balance. On Sundays, he attends an outdoor class on Miami Beach, and I’ve been tagging along, always making sure we don’t set our mats up front. He’s an expert; I need to be right in the middle so I can watch the person in front of me and follow whatever they’re doing.

Being in a group class isn’t my comfort zone, so when the instructor asked us to find a partner we didn’t know, my husband and I exchanged a smile. A little white lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, I thought, and it felt cute to pretend we were strangers. As we did the exercise, I looked around and noticed how shy people seemed, especially since it required sustained eye contact.

When the exercise ended, the instructor asked us to wave at the people across the space. It took me straight back to childhood, to the many Sundays spent at church with my family. During the sign of peace, I dreaded turning around and finding people who somehow managed to look everywhere except at me. It happened so often that I began to believe I must be invisible.

That feeling of invisibility followed me through life and slowly became my comfort zone. Eventually, I even started to think of it as a superpower.

So there I was, in a yoga class, now in my fifties, looking at a group of people and feeling relieved that they were at a safe distance. I connected with one person, then another. And suddenly, she appeared—my inner child. She grabbed my arm and started waving at everyone. She took over my face, too, stretching it into an excited smile. What did I have to lose, after all? I still had my superpower—my invisibility cloak.

Except everyone was waving back. Not only waving back, but doing so with genuine excitement. They didn’t see the guarded adult I thought I was hiding. They saw the child who had taken over.

That’s when another mirror revealed itself: my inner child had awakened theirs.

But how could they see me? The invisibility cloak must have fallen. A split second of panic stung me, followed by something entirely unexpected—relief. It felt refreshing and new. Who would have thought that searching for discipline would lead me here? To a moment of deep awareness. It all lasted only seconds—five at most—but even one second of being seen that day felt like being discovered by the universe itself.

And We Danced

I dread that time of the year when I have to go to get my multiple mammograms. They were recommended to me earlier than most women, because my mom and aunt got breast cancer. And after, it became mandatory when I got diagnosed in my late 40s. So now a days it’s a ritual that comes around every six months.

The first kind I get is the common mammogram most women get. Then I get the sonogram kind and lastly I get the “no nonsense one”, the worst of them all, the MRI mammogram. I have to remind myself these machines are my allies, after all they saved my life once upon a time.

I will tell you a secret, last time I went for a check up I danced with the mammogram machine, the tall one that squeezes your breasts. We held in intimate ways. So intimate he knows things about me that no one else knows. Please don’t judge me, it wasn’t my fault. While adjusting my breasts the technician kept on instructing me to hold the machine very close and tight. Hold your arm high this way, now on the other side, place your hand here, tilt your head that way, hold your breath, don’t move, now breathe.

Soon, I was dancing with the tower monster, an intimate dance choreographed by the technician, and when she would step out to take pictures of us, he whispered in my ear. No, not the technician, the machine, and he told me about a cemetery of mammogram machines. Where they all go after they are replaced, where they collect dust, rust a little and tell the stories of women that came to them, reluctant, like me. Some had their lives spared and some others, like my aunt and mom, weren’t so lucky. They remember their stories, all of them. mothers, daughters, aunts, wives, grandmothers. I hope he remembers me and our intimate dance. 

I hope he gets to tell others my story, how I once got to escape, survived unharmed and always shines clear, always shines free.

My Old House

I keep on having a recurring dream of my previous house in The Roads neighborhood. "As The Roads turn" we used to say when we lived there. When I say "we lived there" that is many people, my ex-husband and I, my mother lived with us periodically, my daughter was born while we lived there, my sister lived with us and my brother as well at one point. So many memories of guests staying, parties, family reunions, birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries.

These recurring dreams started one day when I couldn't find an item I recalled having once. It happens often, I find myself looking for a piece of clothing, decorative object, or kitchen item. In my mind I can vividly remember where it was in my old home, I remember where I stored it so clearly, I can almost touch it. I gave away so many items when I moved. I sold my house and Mathew and I decided to finally get married, yes, he proposed. But that is a story for another day to tell. Back to my old house.

These dreams were conceived prompted by the frustration of not finding these multiple items and shaking my new little house upside down to no avail. These occurrences crawled to my subconscious and creeped into my inner world. Every time I couldn't find an item, I would have the same dream. I walked into my old home, fully knowing it was not mine anymore, therefore very stressed that the new owners will find me there. What would I tell them? I was trespassing and sure enough they would call the police. I would become a headline, "Florida Woman Breaks into Her Old Home. Police said she was looking for a vase she left behind". That vase, and so many things I know I didn't leave behind, but I gave away, my mind knows I packed them in boxes for Goodwill, but my heart has no recollection of it, and it turns out the heart sometimes rules the streaming channel of dreams more often than the mind.

The last dream of the kind was also of me entering my old home, I walked into the back room, the bedroom that became my mom's permanent room after I got divorced and she came to live with my daughter and I for long periods of time. She was our savior, filling all the left-out space with love, like she knew best. I don't know what I would have done in that big house without her. 

In this last dream, finally all my items were visible in her room. Things I had not seen in so long, and there she was sitting in her favorite chair, watching her favorite show, Jeopardy. Little did I know these lost items were leading me to her all along. I spent time with her and at one point I knew I was dreaming and remembered she is no longer with us. I knew I had the gift of that moment, and I took it with all my soul. I didn't bother explaining this to my heart. I now understand that as much as I have found true happiness in my new home, (the kind I always dreamed of), still the memories in that house, with my mom, my daughter, even with my now husband are still so alive within me. It is that place in my heart where I can always walk to meet her again, hold her tight and love her. I know she is with me always, but when I dream of her in that house I can feel her, touch her warmth, and hear her laughter. It is the special place where we can always find each other, that lives within me for life.

 

The Mind and the Heart

My mind understands. It understands what everyone says to console me. “She led a wonderful life.” “She is resting now.” “She is in a better place.” She now looks over you.” And I know it all to be true and understand it in the creases of my mind.

My heart, not so much. He just doesn’t want to reason and feels a void that punches him at his core daily. The mind is looking for him to present a timeline of events of a disease progression that always ends up like this or an explanation of the afterlife based on spirituality and religion. My mind wants to simply throw some common sense at my heart. But my heart just won’t even see him, he refuses. Might be because it’s too soon, or he might never want to have that appointment with him. I fear he might even make it but won’t show up to it. I don’t know, I’ve never been here before so this is all very new.

I’ve seen my heart broken an unwilling to reason but a part of him always listened to the wise advice of the old mind even in its most painful state.

Not this time. We all know love rules the corridors of the heart and we know there is no age for a heart to accept the loss of a mother. The one who always holds your heart unconditionally, without any judgment. My heart doesn’t want to accept it, if it does then he might lose the place he goes daily and meets the memory of my mom's laughter, her smile, her warmth. So far he has been polite with the mind, now a days he is just hiding from him. Because a heart that hides from the mind feels free to remember, to mourn, to get lost in thoughts and that is exactly what he needs, without any explanations. I suspect in time the mind will get to him and put his pieces back together. But the cracks in between always leave gaps and I know those could never be filled completely again, even the mind knows that.

It’s ok, that’s the definition of a broken heart, the gaps are like hallways left there on purpose. A space where there will always be a void for my heart to meet the memory of my mom, just like he wants.

That void echoing tears will some day turn to smiles with memories of her laughter, sense of humor and kindness. The good old mind can relax because he knows a mom’s joy already lives inside the heart of her children, because a mom and her kids will always share the same heartbeat.

The Road Home

Just like that, with the click of a button, after about 30 years living in a quaint neighborhood called The Roads, my home’s pictures roam somewhere in the For Sale section of cyberspace. This is my home for almost two decades, where I danced carelessly with loved ones on the unfinished, roofless shed of the back of my house, adorned with string patio lights and New Year decorations to welcome Y2K, come what may. 

This old beauty was built in 1919; word of mouth says Desi Arnaz owned a now pink home on my street, an old concrete Mediterranean style, two story house, with inviting arches just like mine. I wonder if the guy that built my home ever met Desi. I don’t know much about this home’s history, when I tried to dig information on my property by visiting The City of Miami building department I was told all plans dating that far burned during a fire. What little I know came from the person that sold us the house, he said the first owner was an electrician and it showed, he equipped the house with state of the art wrought iron ceiling lamps and rustic chandeliers. All of what was still here when my ex-husband and I moved in; together with peeling cloth covered wires that surprisingly still worked but had to be replaced in order to be up to code. 

I often try to imagine how the neighborhood must have looked like back then. Years ago when my now teen daughter was a toddler I met one of the neighbors during our daily walks. From a far I saw a lady leaning on the fence of a corner home, she gave me a warm smile while she waved and we chatted a bit. Well, more like she asked me questions, like, where do you live, what is your baby’s name and so forth. Then it came my turn and I asked her how long she lived here with the curiosity of a teenager. She had been living in that same house with purple bougainvillea for decades. She reminisced of a time when her neighbors would leave their doors open and spend the day switching from house to house in between their daily chores, sharing recipes, coffee and stories. What a contrast I thought from now, with our high gates, bolted doors, alarms and camera systems. Most of her neighbors moved to retirement homes or simply had passed away by then. She seemed eager to paint a picture of a bygone era, she was good at it cause I could almost hear the noise of children playing on the streets, smell the seasoning of rice and beans with pork cooking in her kitchen, while a neighbor would walk into her house to share some tres leches dessert she made, no knock on the door required. 

I will miss these roads where my house sits, where my wonderful daughter grew inch by inch from when she was inside of me, this house that saw me heartbroken, fall out of love and back in love again. My house with all its wonderful architecture and secret spots, whoever built it showed the excitement by the amount of details found in every corner. The iron railings, detailed balconies, and its many wood frame windows back when air conditioning was not common. I’m sure he took his time to pick its glass door knobs, pine wood floors and honey comb tile that graces the bathrooms. All the best an up and coming entrepreneur could afford at the time, showing it off to family coming by train from up north the way Flagler envisioned it. Details of the owner’s life I’ll never know but I can assure you he was a visionary, foreseeing what greatness Miami had to offer and what it would become. Wherever his soul is I’m sure he misses these roads as much as I will.

Memories of a Mango Tree

As summer approached, so did the loud thumps of mangos falling daily in my backyard. People said the area was a mango farm; my whole neighborhood bursted with them. I was the proud friend of a tall, thick mango tree that guarded my home like only a titan could. Every year it gave amazing plump and juicy mangos, so sweet they made my belt expand by a notch during the summer months. During season so many dropped it was hard to even attempt to freeze them all, although my mother and I tried, cutting and storing them one by one, scrubbing our nails to get the staining orange dye out. When my mom would visit during  mango season, she would run out early mornings to get them faster than the wild raccoons and squirrels. One time a huge mango fell right on top of her head, almost giving her a concussion, but it didn’t matter to her. Next time she was on a mission, sporting a construction hard hat. If you know us, you know nothing came between us and our mangos.

I can tell you stories about and around the tree. Like when I came from work one day to find all my mangos gone. The tree was full of them in the morning, ready to drop them one after another. It was about the time they would change color from green to orange, which practically threw me into daily anxiety, drooling to see them ripe once and for all. Mango thieves were a Miami thing, and I learned the hard way. How painful to see the fruit pulled from the branches before their time, but the tree had the last word and hid a few for us to enjoy. Yet another troublemaking thief that took them from us was hurricane Irma. Sadly she took away part of the tree, too, sending it into shock, thus leaving us without mangos for the following season.

If that tree could have talked, it would have told you about my daughter building a treehouse with her dad, or when its shade blessed the union of my sister and brother in law during their garden wedding. It stood tall with Brickell and Downtown Miami as a backdrop, with its many modern towers and glass windows standing in contrast to the tree’s connection to nature and our past. That tree witnessed the landscape of the city constantly expanding as its own branches reached high, aiming for the clouds. How many stories it might have watched unfold. The swishing of its leaves when I asked for sweet gossip was more like a hush sound, if you ask me. The only way I could  share its secrets was by sharing its bounty. Each season I would post, “The mango lady is back!” People sent me texts, Facebook posts, calls for a bag or two. I didn’t mind—in fact I loved it! Sharing its deliciousness became a treat as sweet as the fruit itself.

In my backyard, only this tree provided shade on a hot and humid Miami day. I often sat under it while I meditated, smelling its flavor and daydreaming of the pigments of green, bright orange and red that dressed the fruit it bestowed upon us.

That's All

What a lovely Haitian accent, I thought as the technician tried to find my vein. Have you had anything to drink today? She asked. To drink? It’s a little early for happy hour I thought. You mean water? I replied. Yes, she said and added, I’m having a hard time finding your vein. Oh, I had a bit of coconut flavored water, I said. She didn’t reply. Truth is I’m very bad at drinking water. I try to be healthy, a vegan wanna be, but I don’t exercise and I hate drinking water. Coconut flavored infused water didn't seem to impress her. When I received the news, I asked my doctor if this was a result of too much sugar in my diet. I guess she noticed the bit of guilt in my tone and reassured me it’s not my fault. She said, one in every 8 women are diagnosed with cancer, you have done nothing wrong. But I can’t help it, the catholic in me wants to beat on my chest and say, "por mi culpa, por mi culpa por mi gran culpa, I have sinned through my own fault", as I repeated Sundays at church when I was little.

So now I lay face down with my breast hanging down in front of a machine ready to swallow me whole. The kind that has been declared demonic by some. And maybe they are correct or else why would there be so many red warning signs at the door. Caution! Danger! This sophisticated machine that claims would help cure me could also harm me. The technician didn’t mention anything about that. Why would she, we have all sorts of machines now everywhere, placed and designed for our “own good”, even at airports, no disclaimers needed here I guess.

She gives me ear plugs as I lay nervously. The last thing I’ll put on you are the headphones, it will get loud, she says. She hooks me to the IV and off she rolls me inside this monster machine, headphones on and a little pump inside my fist in case of an emergency, all in place.

She was right about her only disclaimer, it was loud in there. But I could hear at times the music through the headphones. 80's songs were playing, fits me perfect since I am a proud 80's girl. In between the loud noises that sounded as if I was trapped in the belly of a moving plane I heard Phil’s voice. “I could leave but I won't go. It'd be easier I know. I can't feel a thing from my head down to my toes.” It made me laugh, it was exactly how I felt. Inside the monster who was ingesting me by loud pieces Phil was with me, as he did so many times when I was a teen. And so I got distracted seeing my life in chapters like a book, realizing how much I want to create more chapters and more stories to tell, even the ones I rather not talk about, like this one. Cause there is no more to life but our stories, that’s all.

The Wave

My mom and dad are in their early eighties and are fortunate to live very active lives. Their children, five of us, range in ages from 45 and up. I always wonder what would feel like to see my daughter, now almost 14 years old as an adult with kids and even grandchildren.

This past weekend my eldest brother was part of a global event called the DGR (Distinguished Gentleman's Ride). Participants worldwide ride the streets of their city celebrating various causes that are meaningful to the riders. My parents were excited to know their son would ride by an intersection not far from their house. Out they went on a sunny winter day, wearing sweaters and leaving their neck scarves behind because it was a bit warm out. They left the house as they often do but this time to see their son ride by. So many riders participate so my brother reassured them he would wave as he passed by. So there they were, standing on the intersection, along with so many other bystanders, waiting with excitement as the riders approached. My dad with his phone in hand attempting to take a snapshot of my brother complained about the sun rays ruining the shot as they reflected off the phone’s glass causing a glare. My mom, smiling with excitement saying "there he is", my brother waiving at them as he had promised rode by. The moment faded quickly as hundreds of other bikers rode away, the noise of all the motor bikes faded slowly. My parents walked back home, mom sporting an even bigger smile and dad still fussing with his phone trying to figure out why he missed the shot.

As kids our parents have sat down in countless of theaters, school rooms, stood up at parades and sport games. All to see us shine doing what we love. As parents we fuss with the camera, we get there early for the best spot, we always feel proud. We did it then, we do it now, no matter our kid's age, they will always feel like our little ones. And when our kids are small we reassure them we will wave at them so they know we are there for them, so they can spot us among a sea of other parents and relatives. And all those times we stood with excitement help build strong children that one day will wave at their parents, finding them in a crowd full of people to reassure them they have someone looking out for them.

Photo by: FB Moteras Peru

NYC Here We Come!

My daughter has consoled me many times in sad movies and plays because like she says, "You cry like a baby mama". There was that time when we saw the Phantom of the Opera together. She was eight years old and I managed to get us balcony seats on Broadway. How amazing was that trip to our favorite city in the world, we walked through Central Park, jumped on the hotel bed while singing, I felt as young as she was. 

We went to see other musicals but Phantom was our favorite by far. She had only seen it on DVD and I had seen it twice while on tour. I remember during the most moving part of the whole musical, when the Phantom stays alone and his fate is sealed she kept on looking at me to check if I was already crying. When I started crying I peeked at her, she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and we just embraced. We hugged and cried until it was over and then looked at each other and laughed. She cleaned the tears off my cheeks and gave me a kiss.

"You cry so easily in movies and plays mama". She makes fun of me now that she is almost fourteen and we are looking forward to our next New York adventure. And you know what? I don't mind, as long as I always have her to wipe the tears off my face. 

The Velvet Suit

I was working at a big department store as Visual Merchandiser. The team was large and we took care of all the wonderful displays you often see at such stores. 

Every three months we got a review visit from headquarters. The managers showed up in their best outfits to impress the execs. We, the visual team did as well. I wanted the day over fast, It was uncomfortable to be so dressed up since our work was physically demanding at times. How much I missed my sneakers that day. Instead I had my black fancy flats and black slacks with a nice blouse. "I hope I don't over do it," I thought when getting ready in the morning. I was rest assured when I arrived to work and saw my colleagues dressed in a similar fashion. Except for one of them wearing a blue velvet suit. He had been working five years in that position and was ready to impress the execs for a much awaited promotion. Although we didn't get to walk the floors or break to lunch with the executives, we all hoped for a much deserved team introduction.

The whole day flew by and to our disappointment they didn't get to introduce us. After they left our senior manager went to tell us how impressed they were with our work and how they looked forward for the next visit. 

And there he was, with his blue velvet suit on. He didn't even take the jacket off for lunch. I felt bad, it sucks to try so hard and not even get noticed. Well, truth is he was noticed, by everyone who stared at a man wearing a blue velvet suit in a mall in the middle of summer. 

Weeks later he did get the promotion he wanted. Maybe he did not get any attention that day but his attitude spoke about him louder than words. For five years he had worn his positive attitude like a symbol of commitment and hard work. The day he got promoted I remembered the day I felt awful for him and I learned to never feel bad for anyone that is giving the extra mile. Even if no one is looking positive energy screams so loud it never remains unnoticed.

Romaine and Ketchup

I woke up sweating in the middle of the night. What a gruesome sight it was, I was crushed by a giant romaine lettuce. My bike and I were buried under it, cute basket included. I was surrounded by a pool of blood, although in my curiosity, driven by the fact I was under no pain I decided to give it a taste. "Yep, I said, it's ketchup!" I woke up concerned, what does this mean? 

I have been a vegetarian for years now and in the works of becoming a vegan with hero cape and all. I felt proud of it. I wanted the world to end the slaughter of animals and their byproducts. But could it be? Can vegetables have feelings too? I worried with passion, as it's my favorite way to worry. What am I supposed to eat now? What if It turns out I'm psycho and my veggies have been Janet Leigh in the shower all this time? What a nightmare. I'm some kind of monster and I didn't even know it. How come someone can lose their halo just like that, in a blink of a judgmental cow's...well, in this case veggie's eye. But what am I saying, vegetables don't have eyes, or do they?

That night my boyfriend and I had a date. It was early in the relationship so I still wanted to cause a good impression by hiding the real me and bringing a delightful version of myself to the table. One can become good at that.

The waiter came. He offered the specials to us. Which I knew would be lacking of some vegetarian options for me. He proudly stated them, after he recited a list of unresponsive animals with nice side options and sauces I asked. "Do you have any kitty or doggy perhaps?" To what he looked at me appalled and after hearing my boyfriend chuckle I asked. "No? Well in that case how about any vegetarian options for me?" He said with a frown, "We have vegetables on a skewer..." to what I immediately yelped. I couldn't imagine the kind of dreams I would have if I ate that tonight. They were both staring at me. I looked kindly and said. "I have the hiccups, sorry, please continue." He said, "We also have Caesar salad with romaine lettuce. I can bring you a side of French fries with ketchup..." I yelped again. "Sorry, I said. I need to go to the restroom, these hiccups are driving me nuts,"

Instead I went out the front door and walked out. I needed some fresh air. "What are you trying to tell me." I yelled to the skies as I walked away from the window hoping my puzzled boyfriend did not catch a glance of my lunacy. I heard no reply from the skies but I did find myself in an alley, I guess I had walked far enough without noticing. A dark, smelly alley that led to the restaurant's kitchen side door, this alley had no way out. "Psst." I heard. I jumped faster than my kitty on catnip. A silhouette was talking to me from the corner next to some empty vegetable crates. My voice trembled. "Who are you?" I asked. "Come into the light." He said. I came close and he said. "I'm Romaine." It was him, in the leaf! He lit his cigarette and offered me one. I said to him. "I don't smoke, those things can kill you you know?" "Well," he said, "what do I have to lose, you are about to order." "Oh no, he is on to me and he is coming for revenge." I thought. He laughed, "Don't worry, that is not why I'm here. I need a favor from you and you owe me. For all the Caesar salads you've ordered and chomped. You got quite a set of chompers there." He puffed his cigarette once more. "I know, my boyfriend says the same." I said. He did not laugh. "Ok" I said. "Anything you want. Shoot!"

"You see, years ago my girl and I were farm animals and so in love. But as destiny had in store for all of us farm begins we were both up in line for slaughter. We yearned to be free to have sex, lots of sex. "Oh" I said, "I can relate to that." "Please don't interrupt." He said and continued. "We wished for a way out and prayed for a miracle. We wanted to become a plant, a leafy watery plant with no flavor or odor to ensure no one would want to eat us. As we were wishing for it it was her turn, she was slaughtered right before my eyes. I yelped once again but did not dare to interrupt him this time. He continued. "Right there our wish came true but a second too late. I became Romaine and she became Ketchup. You see, how it's quite tragic? Because no one orders us together. No one! If only our lips could touch once more, we can be together again." "I can order it!" I said excited. "It will be a terrible meal but I will do it. It will be an honor, I won't fail you Romaine, I promise." He said thank you and blew a big cloud of smoke at my face. I coughed and coughed and coughed some more. I am very allergic to cigarette smoke you know. "Yuk Romaine, you blew it straight to my face!" To my surprise he was gone. "Romaine? Rommey? Romaine!!! I yelled and heard no answer. I turned around towards the restaurant and bumped into my boyfriend right away. "Are you ok?" He asked concerned. "Never been better" I said. "Are you ready to eat? I'm starving." "Sure?" He said confused.

As we were walking inside the restaurant I told him. "You know what I crave right now?" "Romaine?" He asked. His voiced trembled a little bit, I guess he was getting a glimpse of the real me for the first time. "Yes!" I cried excited "Romaine salad and ketchup." "With fries?" He asked. "Nope, just on the side. I hear it is the latest veggie rage."

And with that I can attest Romaine would do anything to steal a kiss from Ketchup and veggies have feelings too.

A Tiny Little Door

Once upon a time there was a door, a little door in the middle of a hedge fence. It connected two houses, mine and my then husband Sean with his best friend's house. Sean was a contractor so when we moved next door to our friend's house it was a very easy task to rip out a section of the fence and replace it with a small door. The door was little and cute, like it belonged in a hobbit's home. 

That door was opened a lot. Back and forth we went to our friend's house for barbecues, super bowl parties, to jump in the pool or just to hang out. Today that door is gone. My current neighbor is replacing the fence and the new one will not include a door of course. 

And so with this tiny door many memories that were long gone came back knocking at my door. Memories of great times shared with good friends, most who I stopped seeing after the divorce. But still the good memories remain and they are of course linked to my ex and the simpler and mostly happy time we shared. Our young lives back then were defined by our friends, our family, the years shared and what we built together. Many years have passed since that chapter of my life was shut like an imaginary door. But life is the biggest contractor and it builds walls, tears down fences and places many other doors to open even if it's scary to walk through them. When I dared to do it there were gifts on the other side I could only dream of. To see my daughter blossom into an awesome person is one of them. Having the chance to meet a new kind of love few only experience once in a lifetime is another one. That was the most surprising gift this new door had waiting for me. 

And now a whole fence is gone and with it comes openness and clear vision of a whole new path of possibilities that still await.

Stories That Remain

The first thing people close to me used to ask me when I would tell them I was back with my ex-boyfriend Mathew, was, "What happened to the chef?" What happened to Drew, that's a good question. Drew went on a business trip that got extended and extended some more. The idea was to keep on seeing each other upon his return but destiny had other plans for us. We stopped messaging one another during his travels and without explanation things just ended in the most natural way.

By now time had passed and those months brought wonderful things I had not expected into bloom with Mathew. I hear from Drew here and there by text. With his typical exuberant excitement he lures me into replying, how could I not, his messages are full of humor no one can resist. Which had me thinking one day how I wished I could be friends with him. So I texted him and said, "Once you told me that even if we didn't make it you would want to remain friends. So I am here to cash that coupon." To what he quickly replied, "I would really love that." Drew and I had a bit of an explosive, I like you, I hate you relationship when we dated, mostly from my end and I presume it would have only grown more complex with time. But friendship is different and what was undeniable was that special connection we had. Between us a feeling of knowing each other forever always lured up in the air. It was like being with my long lost friend from pre-k again, the kind that pulls your pony tails and calls you names because he secretly likes you.

He was disappointed it didn't work out for us. "It sucks I was not ready for more." He excused himself recently, "I was still dealing with the aftermath of divorce when we met and had just broken up with my ex-girlfriend." Truth is I wasn't ready either, I still had feelings for Mathew throughout all the time we dated. "Well, now I will just have to admire you from afar." He said "We will always have the memory of the magical day we met." I said. He liked that since he said not very often he feels such a deep connection with someone he just meets. As far as the friendship, who knows if it will flow. Sometimes finding a keen connection with someone gives the illusion it should last forever. Life is teaching me it does not necessarily has to happen that way. Memories that eventually become a story is all that remains and since it was a special one, for now, it's just enough for me.

A New World for Both of Us

My daughter is growing up and I'm starting to learn that all the clichés of the angst of a pre-teen kid are somewhat true. We were both driving the other day and she chuckled, I immediately asked her "what's so funny?" To what she replied, "Oh, it's an inside joke mom." I wanted to let her know that is not how you usually apply the term "inside joke" but I didn't want to annoy her. She used to share all her thoughts and wishes with me. I'm lucky though, she still shares a lot with me, I won't complain. Our few arguments revolve on me not letting her have the freedom she wishes to have. Like going shopping with her friends with no grownups, wearing make-up or going to sleep at a decent hour. I think I will miss these days when the arguments become about boys and parties, but I'm not there yet. Her biggest argument is "The other parents let my friends do this or that." It's true some do, but most don't, and when I tell her that she rolls her eyes and walks away. One of the battles I have chosen not to fight anymore is the one of a closed bedroom. "Fine," I said one day, "you can close your door but never locked, I can walk in your room whenever I want to and that includes looking in your phone as well."

Today she was remodeling her room again and after she was done she went downstairs to watch some TV. While in the bathroom I couldn't find my favorite nail polish and I went inside her room where I often find many of my things, from clothes to beauty products. And there I saw what she was working on, a world map with pins on it. Clear ones marked the places she has been with me or her dad and red ones of places I presume she wants to go to. I looked at the map and it warmed my heart,” how sweet” I thought. I could see her traveling to all these places and it made me smile to know she had a curiosity to learn of different cultures and people. I then realized she missed one she visited with her dad, Costa Rica. I grabbed a clear pin and pinned it for her. As I did that a red pin fell. "Oh no," I thought, "where does it go now?" I picked it up and looked closely. Brazil had a whole in it. "Perfect! It goes right here." I said while pinning it. But it just didn't slide in. As I pushed it harder I noticed the red pin had just been painted with nail polish that was now all smeared in my fingers. This sure would look bad if she walked in while I was messing with her map with my hand full of red polish, proof of my nosy deeds. I heard her walking upstairs so I pinned it on an angle and left the room giggling like a preteen myself. I quickly walked in the bathroom and grabbed cotton to erase the guilty red on my hand with nail polish remover. "What are you laughing about mom?" She asked. "Oh, nothing” I said, “inside joke." I finally got what she meant in the car. Sometimes it's nice to keep our private thoughts just to ourselves.

An Adventure Worth the Risk

I've been thinking about you a lot and it feels good. On a bad day, craving reassurance makes me wonder what to make of this and in a good day I can see us flowing into and towards destiny with ease. Good days are prevailing though, propelled by a wave of love and passion, lots of passion because I can't stop missing you and it feels amazing when we are together as one. Perhaps that is what being in love is. Maintaining that delusional state that trusts all will flow into place. Because it feels good and it fills my heart with joy that overflows outwards. And maintaining that delusional state is all we can hope for. Because it means that no matter what, one person in the world gets you and has your back. Regardless of your flaws, one person believes in you and will not drop you when things get tough. I've been dropped before and it broke my heart, but it didn't break my spirit and while mending myself I realized the person that has my back has to be me. Because you can't force someone else's heart and free will, and wondering is self-inflicting pain. You can only wish for the best because as much as I might wish for someone to fill my heart with joy truth is no one else but me can finish that task. The reason why my heart broke in the past was because it was not whole to begin with, that missing part made a weak heart that yearned for a filler. I'm afraid to admit I find myself sometimes yearning again, perhaps driven by old time insecurities that are hungry for reassurance. But do not fear, this time I won't fall back into the rabbit's whole anymore. It's impossible because I'm not the same person. I don't let Cupid on the lose these days. I now understand is not his duty, but generous as he is he has given me his tools to complete my quest. With a whole heart I plan to attend love's battle-field and seek for true love once more. That is an adventure worth risking it all for.

A Sucker for Second Chances

Getting back together with an ex is not easy to explain specially if you have traveled that road before. Friends used to offer advice now they just find themselves out of words. They either keep silent and just offer a "well that's good." The more sarcastic ones say " you know where that road leads." The truth is no, I don't know. As no one knows where life would lead them to. I can only guide my decisions with how I feel. All my body screams "this feels good this time, he feels different and I know I am." A friend that falls into the sarcastic category told me, "You've said that to me every time you've gone back with him." Maybe she is right because every time we were indeed different, second chances come disguised as wonderful opportunities to redeem or fix our wrong decisions. You can see it her way or mine, it all depends on how your instincts perceive it. If you let the cynic in you step in, your mind will make sure to find old insecurities and fears and line them up one by one to recreate what proved to be the demise of the relationship.

It's like going back to basics except this time I want to give second chances a real shot and even though I don't expect people to understand right away, I am looking forward to seeing them understand it eventually.