SALT WOUNDS
Dear Coco,
Many words linger here, on my tongue. I recall the moments I would hold them in, swish them back and forth between rounded cheeks. I recall the feeling of bringing table salt to a canker sore. The brutal sting of those words in my mouth burned like salt to an open wound. The pain that dared leave my lips stayed there on the cusps of existing, of being spoken, before dissolving into salt water. Many words linger, many words forever swallowed.
The day you left me I wanted to spit them up. Fingers curled over my tongue and down my throat; I tried to vomit the words I never spoke to you. Quiet and afraid, I kept the truest parts of me from you. I recall the times you tried to fish them out. Your hook would catch a word, a sentence, and you would reel in the line trying to bring it forth to the surface. Always, however, I always broke loose; I swam away from you to depths I felt you would not find me.
Our walks down Balcones have nestled themselves into the flesh-made cavities of my brain. Wind blew at our faces as we passed each block and we always stopped to say hello to Reneé, the neighbor’s cat. Walking through the streets you had called home for so long felt like getting to see inside your mind. Passing Lucero and my dad’s old prep schools, you would extend a finger outward and say, “That’s where your aunt and dad went to school,”. I already knew the stories that would follow, but I would smile and listen as if they were fresh. With talking hands, you told me about your years as a teacher, my father’s years as a rebellious child.
I hate walking now. I despise the endless roads that never seem to end, the stillness that seems to follow me, and the words that rise like bile in my throat. A nation away, a border separate, and still I think of you when I am among the Earth. My fingers thumb through dry soil and try to bury regret, but always a flower blooms. Constantly, I am reminded of all I never said and all I never will.
Our morning talks have nestled themselves into the bloody chambers of my heart. Sun half-risen, we would be the only ones awake. The miniature window above the plastic kitchen table would be open. The wind, which never seemed to still, would blow through the small opening and send a chill down my spine. We would hear the familiar bell of the tortilla man, his shouts echoing in the early morning, and I would giggle as you jogged outside, trying to catch him before he could peel away on his bike. Sipping café de olla, we would talk about our plans for the day. I would tell you about the latest book I was reading, you would tell me about the church and bible study drama. Eventually, however, we would reach the bottom of the bottle. We had discussed everything that lay at the surface and what remained were the things that breathed beneath the Earth. You would ask me if I liked any boys, how I felt about my parents separation, if things were alright between my friends and I, was I happy? You would divulge information about your childhood, your parents, your life before motherhood. I could feel you pulling me towards you then; I could see your eyes telling me, “See I have a past too, you can tell me about yourself.” Many times, I came close to taking the bait, to telling you about the versions of me that were hidden from view, but I never could. The words would crawl up my throat, sit heavy on my voice box, and make their way onto my tongue. There, however, the salt words would touch an open sore. I would wince at the pain and swallow the words once more; these words forever sealed between my lungs.
The day we said farewell to you I refused to look in your casket. I held a bushel of flowers, arms heavy with regret, and watched your sisters weep. I witnessed my father transform into a boy and for the first time in my life I saw grandpa cry. Everything slowed to the pace of a slug.
Throwing dirt on you felt wrong, felt sinful. You didn’t belong there among the other dead, you belonged elsewhere. Somewhere in between life and death, that is where you belonged. As I watched them lower you into the dark Earth I tasted salt. At last I was ready. Couldn’t you have waited just a while more?
When the hole you laid in was filled I fell to my knees and began to claw at the dirt. Viciously I dug and dug. “I am ready!”, I screamed. But, the dirt wouldn’t budge; no matter how much I clawed I made no dent. Tears drenched the mourning dress I wore and dirt was caked beneath my nails. For the first time in a while, I prayed to God. “Bring her back!” I screamed at him. He, too, ignored me.
Fingers curled over my tongue and down my throat, I vomited the words I never spoke to you.
I love a girl, but she doesn’t love me back.
My friends are horrible, but I am afraid of being alone.
My parents are human, I am learning to be okay with that.
I’ve done many things you wouldn’t expect.
I am not good, but I am also not bad.
Coco, I have so much more to tell you.
In a pile of mush they remained on the surface, they didn’t penetrate the soil, they didn’t find you. These words, with nowhere to go, crawled over my lips, grazed the sores on my tongue, and dissolved into salt water. Down my throat the words went and forever nestled themselves between my lungs.
Forever, they linger here on the edge of existence until we meet again.
Eternally thinking of you,
Tu nieta.
Juliza Garcia, 22, Texas - USA ✯ YT: julies35mm & julizagarciacontact@gmail.com
“Immortalizing all of my human experiences through literature and film.”