Prayers Between Us

I do my laundry
in the rhythm of my mother’s prayers—
each crease a rosary,
folding divine
to divine.

I count the times
her perils met mine—
with hands that trembled
at my fever,
hands burnt
in a kitchen
unseen,

List the register 
of her and mine 
shared frailties:
the way we flinched 
at sudden joy, 
unsure it would stay,

All the letters 
written to my heart—
the notes she tucked
into my lunchbox— 
spelling love with a crooked “e”—
predicting all the trembling ones
coming in my future handwriting, 

All the miracles 
found in one minute of our union—
when we peeled oranges in silence, 
and asked the room to hold— 
our breath

The peaceful dreams 
in between the nightmares—
the ones where she 
cut my hair—
called me by my childhood nickname—
Juanito mi Santo Paquito—
how she always made sure
that I had a dog to love
as much as God loved her,
loved us both,  

The silent questions 
that provide their own answers—
how she looked at my bruised knees—
said nothing—
only kissed them

The loves that eluded us—
the hugs we almost— 
gave each other— at the airport, 
then— didn’t,

The one undiluted time— 
she let me see her cry— 
over a song—
she said 
reminded her— 
of no one

The promises— 
she could not willingly keep—
the bedtime stories she never finished—
always falling— asleep— mid-sentence,
trusting me to complete them, 

The times of uninspired love—
when she made me toast without butter—
but still cut each slice into hearts

The numbness of hers that yields
to condensation, 
concession—
the fog on the mirror after my shower, 
where I traced her name,
and thought it spelled out—
REDRUM

The last thing she said—
that became my greatest poem-
her voice cracking on—
“Be good,”—
in the same way, Eliot
heard from his extraterrestrial friend—
before he left earth— for good—

that made it her mantra- mine— ours—
the world’s—  
as if goodness were a fragile heirloom
shared between people in the shining dark—

and made that celluloid tear,
five years later—
the heart light—
that I took into the future—
the moment she uttered— it—
in her final breath— 
and her soul launched to heaven,

E.T. replacing Seven Samurai
as the essential movie—
always playing— 
on my—
our hearts,

How one day— she will walk—
in the rhythm of my prayers—
and I’ll hum it— to the sky— 
hoping—
it —
finds—
her feet.