Life is being sucked out of me as the days go by.

Memories of your existence replay over and over.

When the baby cries, I cry.

Starvation eats me from the pit of my intestines.

Your life, as well as three others, copied on my fifteen inch screen.

Portrait and horizontal.

Memories of their lives in 4k resolution.

I cry, when the baby cries.

What if one day it’s her reliving my good times.

Will it penetrate her heart as it does mine?

Four years in this chair, I never realized that I can adjust it.

The pain has become part of me.

The feeling of discomfort is part of me.

My back carries the pain of the ones who grieve.

My posture is no longer poise.

When the baby cries,

I cry.

The scent of her innocence keeps me alive.

A new frame to work on while she closes her sweet eyes.

I remember a time when I knew not of this trait.

Just like everyone else, waiting to see.

But now, I recreate the past.

I have the power to make it look happy or sad.

Music notes have the impact that one only experiences in the cinema.

I’m so drained.

I don’t even write anymore.

What was I doing before this?

I can’t even remember.

Stories left unfinished,

Frame left unedited.

Coworkers wondering how I can keep my headphones on for so long.

“just let her work” my boss says.

I cry.

Like a baby.

In this uncomfortable chair,

I'm heavy, and,

I cry.

A time where money was new and land was not claimed,

where people needed a voice, they needed to be saved.

No man would take part of these hard hillsides,

But a road came about when fear was set aside.

With picks and shovels they climbed their way through,

The lucky survived, but only a few.

The land was not destined to be safely sustained,

But Mexican’s have a way to make magic obtained.

After he helped create this new way of life,

He was voted to be the judge of local petty crime.

He entered the Army and became a General,

The Law was surrounding him so he became Federal.

I remember him saying that the government was corrupt,

So he created a system where the people could trust.

Gabriel was voted as the president of the Republican Party of the City,

He created organizations from his republican committee.

Land preservation teams and even orphanages are just two to name,

For the right reason he grew into fame.

But this is not what he wanted, in the shadows he preferred,

His reputation followed him by his actions and words.

He gave into his reputation and used it for good,

But he always stayed humble as the good man would.

He passed away on an October many years back,

And still his legacy is easy to track.

But you won’t find him in the history books though or even in the papers,

He was in it for the people, and children and labours.

There is still much to say about this great man,

Speaking as his grandchild who is a great fan.

But I recognize and acknowledge he did not do it alone,

His legacy wasn’t only in the streets but also in his home.

A woman who triumphed every lonely night,

As her husband created the means to their life.

Nine children were born from the woman born in May,

But one name Lucy sadly passed away.

Trini suffered many horrific days,

But she knew God was real and in her heart he stayed.

A true woman is what I sought her to be,

She has her own truly fierce legacy.

Strong, fearless and loyal to her family,

She came up with ways to sustain them financially.

Although Gabriel was known through his acts and his words,

People aren’t paid for the chatter they earned.

She came from a family who knew how to survive,

Selling sheets and blankets is where money derived.

She taught her kids to be strong and smart,

To listen to their minds instead of their hearts.

She passed on to Heaven early on a March day,

Because of that day my March’s remain gray.

My house lingers with her scent of flowers,

Sometimes I mourn her for hours and hours.

But before this poem becomes dark and depressing,

I’ll end it with saying that meeting them was a blessing.

If I have learned something about myself, it’s that my adaptation to life events have been quicker and less depressing. Since I was diagnosed with mixed anxiety-depressive disorder, I have had a cushion to blame my outbursts of crying and being shut-out to the world. It wasn’t until I gave birth to my first daughter that I realized I needed a change. A change that had to originate from the pit of my soul. A change that would seep through my veins and settle in my heart and brain. This change, although not predicted with the “how”, began to take over my being. I had a sudden urge of tasting God. If your not familiar with this statement, it’s completely understandable. In The Bible, John 6 : 54-56, it is said “54 Whoever eats - my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him on the last day. 55 For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. 56 Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him.” I wanted to know what God tasted like. I wanted to feel peace, the hope for eternal life. I wasn’t prepared for this journey but I was not completely unfamiliar with it. My parents tried to raise me as Catholic but because of the negative events that happened while attending church with mom, the attempt was over shadowed. Church and God were still a mystery and was not appreciated. When my baby girl was born, my urge to knowing what was supposed to be taught over powered me.

Anyway, thanks to this random desire to follow my faith journey, it has opened me up with more ways to “dealing.” I don’t think that there is such thing as being a waste of space anymore. I no longer believe that I am not wanted or needed. I no longer feel like I could ever be alone, partly because the husband and children don’t know or haven’t practice MOMMY’S PERSONAL SPACE. I do go through moments of sadness, and I still have anxiety attacks but the recover time is way quicker than I ever knew it to be. I am able to recognize when I am being unreasonable, and I’m able to switch perspectives more as needed. I haven’t gotten the praying-everyday-thing down, but I do pray. I just don’t do it as often as I wish I could. I’m working on that.

Currently, I am trying to be gentle. Gentle to myself, gentle with my family. I am trying this because this life is taking a turning point with our children. Schools are infested with sick children who do not know how to channel their anger. Children are fighting in schools and recording it for likes and shares. It’s crazy. I guess that I am not necessarily preparing myself, only, but also my children and the children who surround me.

I have a nephew that is just… hard to get. My moms and pops are raising him because his mother, my cousin, abandoned him. There’s two of them, they are brothers. But this one specific kid… man oh man. They have diagnosed him with ODD or Oppositional defiant disorder. Children with ODD are defiant and always are on the opposite scale of a conversation.

“Kiddo, wash your hands for dinner.”

“No, I like them dirty.”

“Ok, then sit down and eat with dirty hands.”

“How dare you make me eat with dirty hands?!”

“Ok, let’s go wash your hand together.”

“I’m not a baby, I can do it myself!”

“Ok, come eat.”

“I am so hungry I’m going to die!”

“No, you’re not, come on.”

*Starts rolling on the floor*

“It hurts! It hurts! I’m so hungry!”

*grabs stomach while rolling*

“Kid, come on, eat.”

*eats half of his meal*

“Oh my God, I’m so full. OK bye!”

This is an example from last night. I want to be gentle, I’m sure my mom wants to be gentle, I’m sure everyone wants to be gentle. But it is clear that everyday we have a new worry. All we want and pray for is for these kids to be… sane and sound. Not to get killed for how they respond or dress or act. We as a family, we know what we need to work with, but others? How will the world be o.k. with a defiant child who will grow to be a defiant grown-up? Or how will my low-spoken niece be able to conquer the cruel reality of the world? How will my daughter not be blinded by vanity if her beauty follow’s her to her adult-hood? How will my other nephews and nieces have a healthy relationship with others if the examples of their own parents abandoning them has caused so much trauma already? How can we be better for them?

All I truly want and all I think we have control over is to create a safe space for them. When they experience cruelty, I hope they know, what took me years of therapy to understand, that “Home” is where these efforts are taken.

Home is where love is.

My goal for the week was to publish a chapter a day on The Prose; an autobiography of two people. But with my blood boiling and grieving, I cannot simply sit here at work and try to be creative. I am fucking HOT. I am fuckin boiling.

My morning started off with this auto bio in mind and i was ready to conquer. I get a text that an aunt passed away. That is very much suckish. It sucks because i know people loved her, and still having grandchildren and a young daughter, her absence will affect them. It's sad but because i am faithful, i am sure, she will be ok.

That threw me off for a bit but right after lunch i was ready to get this page going.

BUT NO!

Fuck my LIFE. NO!

My niece, 15 years old, was jumped at school while she was sitting on a 5 ft tall planter.

She was thrown to the floor where she was socked multiple times in the back of the head by a fucking little fucker who is clearly sick in the fucking head.

THE GIRL WAS LAUGHING!

the last bit of the video was of my niece screaming "WHAT IS WRNG WITH YOU!"

I am so upset and i don't know towards who.

Myself? for not teaching her how to fight?

At my mom for not teaching her how to stand up for herself creating a defenseless-90 pound-depressed-anxious-bipolar child?

At the school for not protecting her enough?

The fucking security guard walked up to them like it was just another fight.

This is fucking insane.

This girl has been through so much.

Ironically, she is the inspiration for the everyday posts i want to commit too.

What is wrong with these fucking kids’ man?

How could we have failed so drastically where school fights are a must?

What if anything can schools do?

Why is it that we cannot protect our children?

Why is hate so heavy with these kids?

Who hurt them?

Why did they hurt these kids so bad that it has resulted into such rage towards others.?

Why is the devil seen more than God?

What happens now?

I need a fucking black n mild and a large sangria from Septembers Taproom.

But no.

I have a huge meeting with the president of one of the largest coating manufacturers in the united states.

Smiles on.

Chapter I - "Hussongs"

Post #2

- READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED-

She wasn’t the most poise girl on the block, but she was definitely a sight to see. Grey eyes that sparked when the sun hit them just right. Her hair sat below her shoulder blades and swayed effortlessly as the wind blew its’ soft breath upon her. She loved the feeling of her back being tickled, it kept her innocence alive. Dahlia grew up as most girls living in a tourist town like Guerrero Negro. She had a big family and surrounded by many outsiders. Unfortunately, her father died at a young age and her mother was an addict to the worlds’ natural abused remedies. Her grandmother, Emma-Lisa, raised her but fell short in the parenting portion of the guardianship. Emma-Lisa was a known prostitute and she occasionally harbored fugitives who were involved in local drug dealings. Dahlia didn’t have a choice but to witness and experience an upbringing that was unfair to her.

At the age of ten, Dahlia began puberty and her natural assets began to unravel. She began to speak and move as her older influences had influenced her. Her body was fit and her mind was tainted by her upbringing. At eleven years old, she had her first boyfriend. He was fifteen. They met at school and instead of being a place where a young girl goes to fill her mind with important information that would guide her to a future profession, she was trapped in a systematically damaging environment.

Her fifteen-year-old boyfriend, Christian, was part of a trafficking ring. He was coerced to gather young girls and convince them to participate in sexual acts involving some of the teachers at their school. Although disgusting, it was rumored and spoken about around town, yet, no one did anything to stop this corruption. Christian had invited Dahlia to a local party house and unfortunately, she obliged. Dahlia and Christian were raped by two third grade teachers that night. Christian committed suicide the next morning, or so the reports would say the following week.

Becoming aware of the heinous crime, Emma-Lisa decided to gather Dahlia and her belongings and move to the upcoming city of Ensenada. Dahlia thrived in this new city. She was the new girl in the area and her beauty remained intact. Although the rape had chipped a bit of her soul, and she was now cautious of men, she remained gracious. Emma-Lisa somehow convinced Dahlia to believe that the rape was not her fault and that demons had gotten a hold of her. She explained that only demons can sniff the innocence and purity of a child, and that’s how she knew Dahlia was a good girl. Dahlia felt comfort in these statements. She never once believed that the vile actions taken upon her body were a result of her stupidity or her bad judgement; which although twisted, and very true… this was not her fault.

At twelve years old, Dahlia became more aware of Emma-Lisa’s “nightly encounters” at their house. Things that she witnessed back home were finally beginning to make sense to her. She began to become frustrated with her grandmothers’ conduct and started to go out. Since her body was matured and her mind was rushed into adulthood, she figured that there wouldn’t be a problem in entering a dance club. Dahlia loved to dance. The sound of music made her feel alive. The bass entering from her soles made its way to her heart and kept her in love with the feeling of freedom.

Up until this very moment, where she stood in line waiting to enter Hussongs Cantina and Dance, she never once believed that she lived in a world with no meaning or hope. But being impacted by the realization that her father was dead, her mother was an addict and her grandma was a prostitute, her soul began to darken. She was next to enter the club but not before she heard a loud crash on the main street. It seemed that a red Jeep had cut off a pedestrian causing another car to swerve onto the sidewalk. She paid no mind to it and began to enter the building that would collect her innocence once more.

She was fifteen when she met the love of her life. He was knocking on thirties door but yet, they found each other in the same place that night; in a club in a Ensenada. He saw her outside of the VIP section and invited her to come over. Not knowing she was fifteen, they began to speak. In truth, he wouldn't have cared if she had disclosed her age, anyway. He was not interested in such semantics. What needed to be a single night of fun and a little cocaine, lasted and created a lifetime of never-ending heartbreak. She was fifteen and he was knocking on thirties door.

Fear not of the man who lives down the hall,

for he was once great, before his grand fall.

Fear not of the man who yells through the walls,

everything is fine, those are his calls.

He calls for the woman who has left him alone,

she stood by his side, then he turned her to stone.

Stoning was his punishment for what he had said,

he damned her once, and then again and again.

Fear not of the man who cannot speak,

yelling is his native tongue now, you see.

He was also a blonde, though he might not recall,

it first turned to black but now he's left bald.

He was also damned to a life with no pair,

for damning his love out of useless despair.

He goes on with life with only one of each

perhaps has two locks but only one key.

He damned his love, then he damned himself,

a man with true hate and spread it around.

But now he lives alone 'cause of his unexpected spell,

this is why he's ruined, this is why he fell.

He once was a banker in downtown L.A.,

then he met the love of his life, Ela Le'Laine,

They fell in love and waited no time,

they married in the summer under the grape vines.

Although their love was as strong as could be,

he wanted a son but she couldn't conceive.

His anger turned to rage and fear entered their home,

she remained in love but he turned ice cold.

She was ready to tell him of their soon to be son,

but before she could speak he took out his gun.

"If you can't conceive, then it's not meant to be,

to hell with us both, now we'll be free."

He damned her once, and then again and again,

his face turned purple and his eyes bright red.

One wouldn't believe for what his eyes would see,

His words manifested into something obscene.

She fell to the floor and took out a box,

but she turned into stone and left nothing but rocks.

The remains of the box fell to the floor,

And shattered in pieces, his heart fully tore,

Stunned of this curse, he closed his eyes tight,

this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be right.

One blue sock laid in front of his feet,

With a pregnancy stick and the words “Daddy to BE”

But he said the words, and the words would be,

to live a life in hell, and soon he would see.

Fear not of the man who lives with no pair.

His pain took over, and this is not rare.

Live a life that is patience, live a life that is good.

Live a life that any happy man would.

The thing about most and I don’t mean to boast, as a woman with abnormal perception, but the thing about most is the lack of want and withered comprehension.

“Withered comprehension”

With-her-compre-compression

With-her-compression

With-her depression.

Over weight. Over Worked.

The thing about most.

Most. -

No. -

The thing about most. Perhaps not most.

The thing about me.

But not all the time.

The things about me, I have abnormal perception. Abnormal comprehension.

But not all the time.

Time to get up now.

I have the same recurring dreams. I know where I’m at and I know what I am wearing. What I don’t know is why am I back here, again.

In my dream, I’m about 7 years old, with a school girl outfit. It’s blue with a white color.

I’m on a road surrounded by mountains, lots and lots of mountains.

There’s a wooden house just before a cliff. A Guamuchil tree sways near the front door. I can hear it swaying back and forth. The breeze is so fresh. The smell from the tree reaches me and I take a deep breath.

Sweet and smooth.

I feel peace.

I am standing on the road alone.

The breeze travels from my face to my feet. It wraps around my foot. The once sweet smell of guamuchiles grabs my ankles and pulls me toward the cliff. I struggle to grab on anything but the roads are clear, the ground is clear, there’s nothing I can hold on too.

At first, when I was a child, and when the dream became clearer, I fought with every might. I tried so many things to release me from the hold, but I never could.

But now, I don’t fight it anymore. I let it take me.

It pulls me to the edge of the cliff and when I look down, I see a dry arroyo waiting for my splattered body to fill it as water once had.

Just before I hit the ground, I wake up.

Since I was a little girl, this dream replays in my head and haunts me in my sleep. It’s one of many dreams that are so vivid but I cannot control. I have learned to identify when I am dreaming, a tool I learned through self-meditation, but this one, I just can’t change and seems so real.

I always wake up with questions.

What was in the house? Why the tree? The smell seems so familiar but I’ve never been next to a guamuchil tree. I have never even seen one.

But my mother has.

Since I started to work on our relationship and allowed myself to accept her venting to me with minor judgement, my mother has opened up about her childhood.

I think I have been dreaming her all these years. Her trauma. They say that trauma, although we don’t physically live through it or witness it, our mothers, pass it down through birth. A little of our mother, our grandmother, and so forth, have been embedded in us since birth. Their memories, their pain.

The Guamuchil Tree was not too common in her neighborhood growing up. A man, a family friend, had a huge Guamuchil Tree outside of his home. My grandmother would tell my mother to cut down strands of the sweet fruit and take her into the city to sell it. She had mentioned this family “friend” so many times while I was growing up that I never really paid attention to who he was. He was a nobody. A molester, a rapist, a demon. But my mother talked about him as if he was just another uncle. From the recent stories my mother has vented to me, he molested her and my grandma stayed hush about it. They needed to sell guamuchiles, after all.

My mother kept going back, and he kept molesting her.

When my mother was 12 years old, she became pregnant. She claims that it was another man. A man her mother was dating at the time. She claims he died a long time ago, but I have my suspicions.

I’ve learned that it’s common for a child or adult to suppress the memories or feel guilt or disgust with themselves and that is why they remain quiet about their offenders. I wonder if it was him.

It would explain why the sweet guamuchil wasn’t so sweet in the end.

-READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED-

It’s been three years and still, I can not drink water out of a plastic bottle. I can no longer stand the sight of empty spaces in the center of living rooms. I was never a fan of wooded twin sized beds but since March 28th, 2020, I refuse to look at one and much less, sit on one. “She lived a good… long life,” they said. “She needed to rest,” they said. “At least she is at peace, now…”, they repeated over and over… and over. They just don’t know.

Her scent still lingers.

Her last days were spent in pain and agony with no appetite. She no longer ate out of joy, but merely to stay alive unwillingly. Once brown, indigenous skin, succumbed with IV scabs and pale patches from her diagnosed anemia, diabetes and cancer. For years she complained about leaving us. She prayed for God to be merciful and to release her from her pain. But no one understood that the pain she felt was from deep within. Ninety-three years on Earth, professing love and devotion to your husband and children, will do that to you. When your lover is taken to the skies above and your children grow old and reproduce, what do you live for? Self-love isn’t taught in the fields. Even when she sold Mexican Cal to her village, who was that for? Not her.

She had been denying food for nearly a week and hospice reassured us she was fine. I guess we didn’t understand what hospice truly was. I remember the nurses name.

Anwar.

For days, she had been hearing homilies in song. Joy would flood her tired face when she would ask, “Do you hear that?”. At 5:00 a.m., she woke up to tell my mom that the kids had been messing with her eyelids all night and were giggling. She kept trying to shoo them away but they wouldn’t stop. The kids weren’t there, they were tucked in bed, and no music played over night.

At 6:28 a.m. she was cold and unresponsive.

I cleared the house, leaving my mother, father, myself and my dead Mexican Queen to endure this pain alone. My mother was never able to control her emotions and today was no different. She freaked out and relinquished control to me, as she always does when things get too tough. Being my father’s mother who was laying lifeless in the twin sized bed, he was mute and officially scarred for life… as was I. I called 9-1-1 and was prompted to lay her down in an open area and begin CPR. She had a DNR but who keeps track of those documents anyway.

“How do you know she is no longer alive?” the 9-1-1 operator asked. Well, she was cold and wasn’t moving. What kind of fucking question is that? “She’s not moving and she was 93 years old. She was under hospice care. I need help, I can’t lift her alone.” I said. As if I was the only one in the home. The home that has now claimed two souls.

Husband and wife.

My father and I mustered every ounce of strength and moved her from the wooden twin sized bed to the spacious living room floor. For a 98-pound lady, she was pretty heavy.

We laid her down as the 9-1-1 operator instructed me to perform CPR. I repeated that she had a DNR but she did not care. My father looked at me. His eyes and mouth, “Please, keep her alive, I’m not ready.” My heart was torn between hurting her soulless body and keeping my father at ease. I obliged. Her ribs cracked at the first and only pump to the chest I made. The sound of empty water bottle shrinking and scrunching dramatically as the last drop swims toward the back of your esophagus.

She wore a light blue night gown that my mother had bought her to make changing her diapers easier. I had grey sweats, black pumas and a red sweater I bought for Valentine’s day. My mother wore a stripped black and white t-shirt with blue sweat pants. My father changed after the paramedics arrived; blue plaid button-up. Black dressing pants and Dockers.

Her name was Maria Trinidad Del Castillo Lepe.

A legend.

1926 - 2020