And in the shadow of his absence, part of me grew small and weak. Rage was the weight I would bench press to grow strong.
And in the shadow of her rage, I grew my own rage. Life, gave Mami no other options, but to focus her gaze, and hunch her shoulders and swing. Mami raised my sister and I as if life was one perpetual battle. At times her fierce boldness blinded me, and I was forced to hide in the dark. I’d often have to look down or raise my arm to block the glare. Mami, though complicated and with many faults was and is a steadfast in my life. But in order to tell the story of Papi I must start with Mami.
Memory must be wheedled out.Īs I wait for the memories to come, I narrate the story that is Papi. It does not work on demand like fingers across computer keys. I forced my fingers to hurry and type before I lost my nerve. And several small incidents throughout the week served as gentle reminders to write this essay. And this Papi essay began to bud soon after I hit the publish button on last week’s post. I must write about all the characters that shaped me.
Song that sings papi papi papi full#
It’s been gradual, but I have begun to realize how much writing can heal and connect.īut in order to tell the full story. The kind that comes from somewhere deep inside and stored for long. “These essays help me understand myself… I need to tell these stories.” “I did,” she paused, “it helped… I feel like I get Mami now.” I worried my family would turn their gaze at my reflection. I feared my loved ones would think my sentences silly, my metaphors dramatic, my similes forced. Up until this essay challenge I did not share my writing with my sister or any members of my family. After my last essay about Mami my sister called.
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