Macabre Moments

Forgive me for calling my mom or dad

every time I can’t manage a breakdown. Sometimes I can do it on my own, other times they’re really bad.

Mi amá siempre me dice: Resale su Padre Nuestro a tu hermano, hijo. Pídele fortaleza.

Like the big brother that I am, I go sit next to your altar and I pray:

Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo, 

santificado sea tu Nombre;

venga a nosotros tu Reino;

hágase tu voluntad 

en la tierra como en el cielo

I pause and ask myself: why am I praying to you bro? Where did we go wrong in life that we ended up here?

I continue:

Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día;

perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden;

Sometimes I don’t finish the prayer; forgive me. But I can’t say the words, can’t say what I don’t mean; I can’t say them without thinking of the one person I will never forgive.

His name flashes in my head, my heart races from anger, thinking of why he gets to live.

I wish him dead. I wish I could squeeze the life out of him with my bare hands. I wish I could scream in his face as I do it . . . I wish I could, sometimes . . .

. . . and in the darkest corner of my mind, I see red . . . would it bring you back? to end the life that took yours . . . I think about it in my pastime . . .

no nos dejes caer en la tentación,

y líbranos del mal.

The times I do finish the prayer, I picture you saying: Tu déjalo wey, fuck that bro. He’s not worth it. Imagínate mis parents.

The voice of reason . . . it’s you, of course it’s you.

Losing one son is terrible enough, but two?

Amén.

Sometimes I just sit there . . . without praying, and I . . . d e f l a t e

Sometimes I sit there staring at your smile as the sadness pulls me away . . . and reels me in like a tidal wave.

So sudden, so intense . . . I welcome it with open arms . . . and I feel the walls close in on me, pulsing in and out,

my heart races; sometimes it feels as if its racing away from me toward an imaginary finish line where you’re waiting for us . . .

But the finish line is just that—imaginary.

The only deliverance of some tranquility is yelling . . . I yell your name until my lungs burn, until my throat croaks because damn my throat, I don’t need to speak today. Not really.

What’s the point if I can’t trade words with you bro?

Forgive me, but my anger is not directed at you.

I’m not angry with you. I will never be angry with you; forgive me if it looks that way.

I’m angry at Death for choosing you. If I had the chance to go one-on-one with Death over you, I would beat it, pummel it to a pulp, and I would walk back home . . . right next to you.

One can only dream . . . as hurtful as they can be, I dream nonetheless. Because dreams allow me to be with you and hear you laugh at your own insults. . .

y me recuerdo las palabras de mi amá: pídele fortaleza a tu hermano.

and I plead with you, as a pile of tears blind me: I’m not as brave as you, forgive me. Perdóname bro. Dame algo—dime . . . algo . . . Préstame la cosa que te hacía fuerte.

because you’re not here, and I can’t fill the empty space that stood between us when you opened your arms to me.

Do you remember? You would get annoyed if I didn’t hug you fast enough. Every year. Every winter. You would knock at my door . . . and I would swing it open like a brute,

And you would stand there with your open arms. All the time. And when a hug wasn’t the first thing I did, you would get mad. Not mad mad. Just . . . inconvenienced . . .

And when I did hug you, it was a big hug. Always. Like the type a big brother gives his little brother . . . and you would always say: what up G, you chillin’? as you grabbed the rolls on the side of my stomach.

Sometimes mi amá’s echoes calm me, and sometimes the echoes of her cries fuel the anger.

Because that’s our mom. She shouldn’t be going through this—none of us should.

If I could change everything, I would.

I’m angry knowing I can’t.

Forgive me for being angry, Chuy.

I just miss you . . .

. . . and it hurts so much to miss you.