A prose poem by Tessa Martinez
I was ten. At the first breaking dawn of 2006, my world shifted – perspectives forever changed. Experiencing the death of my father at an age so supple has lifted the child from my heart and replaced it with a hungry hole. His death changed the way I understood being alive. It might be the only reason I know how to live.
I was raised in the southwest suburbs of Chicago. My father was a slightly traditional Mexican Catholic and Ma is Irish Catholic. My dad wanted to baptize me proper but my mother refused. She would not belong to a church – so they did it at home. In the pool that spent the beginning of its time as a water trough at the horse track where my mom and dad met working. The giant blue plastic bowl retired to the left of my favorite tree, right where the sun spread wide in that old backyard. Baptized with water from the hose. The hand of my father. The hand of God.
It is hard for me to be where I come from. My father wasn’t like the Mexican fathers I would come to know. My father was a soft, sensitive man. He never yelled, but he raised me like a warrior. Ma puts me to work, my dad taught me how to get through it.
***
One memory I could wrap up in silk. A treasured moment between my father and I is from a time resembling a bad watercolor painting. Mostly everything is muddy. Everything except this memory. It was a typical summer day. I had a friend over from the block and she was spending the night. I was a private kid, hating to be rushed or interrupted. I’m still private as an adult.
As I sit here in this memory so vivid, I can hear his bellowing voice crashing to the top of the stairs at my bedroom door. He was calling for my attention, my presence. I snarled back at him. Snapped I was too busy. Five minutes or so go by and I hear a gentle knock on my door. The softness sliced through me. I get up from the floor without breathing and walk to the door. When I open it, my father stares directly in my eyes. So sweetly. He asks me to meet him downstairs in his office, when I am ready.
I feel like I am regurgitating my feelings of guilt. My physical reaction was paralysis. I stood at the top of the stairs and watched him walk away. I told my friend I would return soon.
When I found my father in his office, he was weeping. This tall, strong, kind man whose voice could rattle mountains was hurt. Truly and honestly hurt by this small, curly-haired brat. He barely heard me come in. When he saw me, he wiped his tears, patted his lap, motioning for me to come sit. When he opened his mouth, I was so much more startled by the smooth, calm and loving words that dripped from his lips. I think I realized then that my dad might have been an oracle. It was a moment of sage advice that transformed me and taught me the importance of slowing down to listen and tune in to the people around me. To put the needs of others before my ego.
I will never forget what he said to me:
My dear daughter, you must be careful with your words and the way you express yourself. There is something strong in the way you can speak to others. It strikes like a blade and has the potential to cut through hearts. Choose your words carefully and slowly. If you are angry, breathe. If you are scared, breathe deeper. You have no idea how much it hurts me to hear the way you speak to me today. I will forgive you as long as you forgive yourself and promise to think harder and be kinder.
These words played in my head perpetually during the week we prepared for his funeral. When it was time for his service, the immediate family was given fully stemmed red roses to place on his casket. I took two. One for him and one for me. Fifteen years later in a small box tucked away, the head of my rose remains unbothered.
Knowing that the rose is close, keeps my father close, which keeps me close to myself. Those words still play on repeat every day. Through the incessant demand of my family and the poise for friends, the face I choose is calm. The face I choose is kind.