Breadcrumb #543

ADRIAN ERNESTO CEPEDA

“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” 

― Cormac McCarthy

It always started the instant I would
arrive from the West Coast, the distance
would be our buffer, but when I you
saw me, Mami, you would always
start off with a whisper, por que
no vives in Tejas? Already asking
why I live in la ciudad de Los Angeles,
trying not to let my wife overhear
your tone, when you know the reasons
I live far from home. It is the incident
we never speak of, the secret that night
in the old house when I was watching
futbol with my older hermano and
you came up to see what we were
up to, I was clutching my drink 
and without thinking, I asked, 
por favor can you get me some
more?  The look in your sight
was one of fury when you grabbed
my copa de vidrio and smashed it 
on my knee, I still remember 
the shattering in the dark, shadows 
of glass from the TV, looking down
seeing the mark you created sangre
so bloody. I never let you regret,
forget, how could I? Now looking 
back, the pieces so many we could
never find still left on the carpet, 
kept our familia apart, we never
mentioned el incidente, the distance
made the gash smart— although,
I don’t recall you ever apologizing, 
I just remember so much el tensión
between the silence, For years we 
we never mentioned your moment 
of intensidad, instead you would 
whisper shards of passively aggressive 
distance, although the scar healed 
you still sliced me with palabras, 
the lengua you used to castigar, 
although we only spoke in fragments 
broken, your words always stung me.

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