Grandma Kika says on the phone,

she recently moved.

​

Why didn’t my dad tell me? Did he finally

move her in with him? Is she home,

away from six barking dogs and

angry footsteps? Is it over

 

I ask her, Con quien te mudaste? Con mi papá?

She hums a single note. Mmmm.

I can picture her hand pressed to her mouth when she thinks.

No sé, pero esta cama es muy cómoda para nosotros.

My stomach twists inward, reaching for comfort

it will not get because-

 

She is still at my aunt’s. Crowded by noise and people

who are not patient or kind. I have heard their voices

raise and seen their chests puff in her face. A face

of someone I love. Someone who is my home.

What happened to my home? What did you do?

Who am I talking to? Not her. I cannot blame her.

I know why she left. I spent 16 years sleeping

on her right side before I stopped going.

My mom bought a house, it was an attempt

at our first home after years of sleeping on two couches.

I was 17 I had my own room and slept alone

for the first time. I had a boyfriend. But

where was my home? Not here. She waited for me

until she could not. And then it was her that left.

Pieces of our past scattered in a room

in a house that is not home. Where is my home?

What happened? Who took it from me? Why-

 

I tell her yes. I’ll stay with her. As if I could.

As if it were a fresh start for the both of us.

Or as if we could start from where we left off.

Like the years never left us.

Like I never left her. Alone, in a bed

big enough for the two of us.