Papá, you wrote this poem:
the beating of the hearts
broken the calm of the ocean that
feeds them and the howling o’ the
night banishes the cowardly eyes
in the melancholy they sink when
life rejects them at tender
sunset
we are thorned souls
far from reality
and hailed the cypresses
and the Golondrinas
Papá, you and I are golondrinas, swallows. I came to you, to perch on your balcony and lie in
your nest. I flew away at tender sunset. You were a thorned soul, a sacred heart, and you knew I would
return.
You held my mom’s hand. Rain came down and filled the streets. A downed powerline slipped
into a puddle, and when you and mom splashed through it, you were shocked from hand to hand.
You went back to your sisters and declared, “I am in love!”
They rolled their eyes, “Pshhh, ¡Arturo el romántico!”
I was born two years later.
In an old video, I sat on your lap and tried to eat dirt. Mom held the camera. “Arturo, watch out!”
she said.
“Ah, don’t worry, Megan. My mom let us play in dirt. It’s good for you.”
Meanwhile, I stuck my face in the mud.
I wonder if you already had symptoms when that video was taken. I wonder when mom knew.
Maybe you talked about the delusions and hallucinations—once the video camera was switched off and I
was put down to nap.
I know you tried to go to the U.S. to get treatment, but they caught you crossing the border as a
kid and wouldn’t let you in.
Right before my first birthday, mom made the decision to leave and take me with her. I think you
understood. You “weren’t very stable,” she said. Not stable enough to raise a child. I try to understand. I
wonder when you knew we were leaving. I know you always thought we might come back—your
golondrinas. You were not a coward. You never gave up. And new birds flew to your sill. Not many,
though. It was a lonely life, but your mother was there, and you had a few friends at Rock and Ron’s pub
and bar.
You sent me paintbrushes in the mail. You were an artist. You wrote to me, “Every day when i
wake up i say a little prayer on your sake and when i paint every sroke i intention it with love for you.”
When I was little, mom fielded the calls and emails. She tried to protect me, I think. In high school, she
let me talk to you on my own.
At fourteen, I was too young to understand your love. My attention span wasn’t long enough for
your love. I only responded to about half of your emails. This made you sad. I hope the happiness you felt
when you received an email outweighed the sadness from my silence. “Have I angered you, indi??” you
wrote. You hadn’t. I was just too self-absorbed to write back. I did like writing to you, but I thought you’d
be around forever.
And at fifteen, when you died, I was too young to understand what I had lost. Your mother, your
sisters, your brother, your cousins, they cried for you, and we painted your tomb.
I had flown back to you, but it was too late. Your face was a puffy mask. It didn’t look like a face.
But that was the first time I’d been beside your body since I left, so I looked even though I knew it was all
wrong. You were not there to see my return. So, I turned to your tomb with the rest of them.
“Art is for champions!” you wrote to me, “And you are a real good artist like me.” I painted your
tomb and stuck colored stones into the cement.
Your mother, my abuela, hugged me. “Mi Indi cariñoso, te amo.” You were not coming back, so
she held me. Her golondrina had flown away and was never coming back. I am my father’s son, a
golondrina to sit at my abuela’s side and hold her beating heart. And now that I am old enough to cry for
you, she holds me too. And we have your paintings on our walls and your brushes in our drawers.
I have folders full of your paintings.
“I hope you enjoy this little present,” you wrote, when you sent me a new creation.
But these are all echoes of our golondrina. I want you to come back to me. Please. Come back to
your son. I know what you felt now. I know the hopeless pain you felt to see the sun set. The birds could
blanket the skies and never comfort your thorned heart. I take out your brushes and my paints, and I sit
down. I call to you. Please, come back to me, my sweet golondrina, my Papá. And your face takes shape
on my paper, and your loving hands hold mine. And you tell me, “just let your self flow on the canvas and
touch at the last stroke as if it was the begining of the piece!!!!” And I paint your face, and for a moment
you come back to me, and I am a thorned soul, far from reality, and I hail the cypresses and the
golondrinas.
