Pulgis 
 
In my home, filled with picture frames    
that locked every familiar memory into place,    
surrounded by voices and warmth,   
I still felt alone.     
 
I braid my hair like she showed me,   
three strands: her voice, my silence,   
 and a ribbon of yellow     
 
In her kitchen, the walls remember   
songs I was too young to translate.   
She hummed them over simmering pots,   
that boiled and bubbled;   
releasing pockets of chile and spices   
like prayers.     
 
She called me pulgis–   
her little flea,   
Because I clung to her skirts,   
as if I were a piece of fabric, too.   
Always at her heels,    
shadowing every step,   
echoing back to her the words she'd say,   
and making sure the beating of my tiny heart   
synced with hers     
 
And sometimes,   
when I tugged too hard on her,    
she'd smile   
and gently shake me loose.     
 
Her love was like a woven sweater,    
Warm, tight, beautiful—   
but often times hard to breathe in.     
 
I dreamed of being free–   
free from the tough expectations   
free from the constant pursuit of perfection   
free from the woven chamber she wrapped around me.   
I longed for a reflection    
of my own    
my own choosing   
without the whispers of my mother   
infecting my every thought   
and decision.     
 
But still–    
when I packed my books,   
my dreams,   
my quiet defiance,   
I packed the recipe for her sopa too.     
 
Because leaving isn't always forgetting   
and to love doesn't mean to stay.     
 
The golden sun above stretches over me–   
as yellow as the ribbon she once tied in my hair.   
I braid it in sometimes still   
keeping a piece of her with me,   
even as I walk away.