8 “Wasted Time” by Flor Sanchez Nava

Mexico

Dad leaves before I ever wake up, and he comes home long after my head hits my pillow. When I wake, Mom puts my short hair in pigtails, using those bright hair ties with the balls on each end. She twists them around my hair, once, twice, and then once more just so it tightly pulls my hair neatly off my face. The balls settle against each other with a soft clink and the friction of them rubbing against each other leads to an unbearable painful pull of my hair. A sharp yelp escapes my mouth and with her soft voice she says that beauty is pain. Her thin hands reach for the tub of gel, the one with the strong smell that she buys at the corner store. Her fingers dip in to grab enough gel to slick down the stray hairs. She takes her time with each step and once she’s done she puts me in my plaid skirt and white shirt that makes the school’s uniform. Lastly, she hands me a pair of white socks with the lace at the top that stand out once slipped in my pair of shiny black shoes. We take the stairs down to the kitchen, where my sisters are already dipping their bread in their cafe con leche. Mom hands me a small cup with more milk than coffee and my favorite bread. After finishing the contents in my cup, she tells me to grab my backpack and that she’ll take me to school. She takes my hand in hers and we cross the street to get to school. She waves and tells me to have a good day as I run to my friends.

At the end of the day, she’s always outside waiting to take me home, she asks about my day and what I did. At home, she spends the evening in the kitchen cooking a hearty meal for us. She sets the table for six. Only five eat. That’s the way it is, the way it always has been. In hopes of destracting Mom of his absence, I tell her about the dream I had last night and how excited I am for Alondra’s birthday party this weekend. Anything to get her mind of my dad.

After my mom’s put me to bed, I lay in bed worrying about Mom and how she’s downstairs waiting for my dad. I hear when he comes in, slurring his words and slamming the door, he manages to yell my mom’s name. I think about getting out of bed, but I know Mom doesn’t like it when I do. I wonder if my sister’s were woken by him too, probably. After he gets tired of telling my mom what’s wrong with her he passes out, or maybe I do. In the morning he’s gone and Mom comes to get me to have breakfast. She sips on her cafe con leche that I notice is darker than mine.

Los Estados Unidos

Lleva años desde que él no toma. Ahora es un papá de familia, hecho y derecho. Los dos se van antes de que despierte o que amanezca. Mi mamá carga su café en un termo rosita que nunca se le olvida por qué es lo unico que le alluda a empezar el día. Cuando nosotros despertamos, nos apuramos, tomando turnos a ayudar mi hermanito a vestirse. Pienso en los días que mi mamá me peinaba y me vestía. Lamento que mi hermanito no va a tener la misma memoria. Ya no existen los días en cuando podíamos tomarnos el tiempo. Nos vestimos y agarramos una barrita para que cuando vengan por nosotros estemos listos. Pasamos el día en la escuela hablando un lenguaje diferente. Cuando me preguntan como me gusta el café y les digo que con leche me miran extraño y me dicen que eso no es café. En lugar de decirles que mi mamá prepara el café así, me quedo callada y empiezo a tomar el café como ellos.