Para Mi Mama

I can remember the feeling of my mother sleeping with me in bed as a child. Her soft scent of lilies and her tender love that felt otherworldly. I can remember the care and her mornings of cleaning the house with Selena playing in the background. I can remember the cross that hung up over my bed, and the countless nights I begged just once more for her comfort for sleep. My mother, raised by the seed in Michoacan and flying with the butterflies, learned to grow by herself. Although her pain still lingers through the tip of her fingers and finds its way back to her stomach like a parasite, she opens her hands to love and care for me. She has grown and has learned the ways of healing herself. Although she still suffers from things she does not wish to speak of, as if her lips sown together, she still manages to show me adoration. Like the ripeness of a mango or the sweetness of her honey, her devotion holds on me like the most divine, sacred spell from Mexico. She teaches me her culture, the lessons and delight, and the grief of loss. She teaches me the ways of a woman- braiding my hair in the morning and telling me si se puede. As I sob in her arms, she takes me in like a butterfly comfortably in her cocoon. She's seen me break out of the cocoon, but as soon as I see her again in our four-story apartment complex, the smell of her lingers with the cafe de Abuelita and pan dulce. I know I am home. She is my mother. For I thank la Virgen de Guadalupe for blessing me with her life and thanking her for the sacrifices she made in order to have me. She is my mother.