Nana: Marlboro Red Head, a story
The only lights on were the TV and her Marlboro red. She was lying on the couch with 2-year old Teddy. My sister Lisa and three girl cousins Mary , Cece, and Frances were on the floor sleeping beneath Nana’s crocheted and old Army blankets. I should have been asleep too, but the TV must have woken me up. I stayed quiet and watched her TV program. After a while, I forgot about not being noticed and started to sit up. Without noticing me, she turned around so fast. The Marlboro red stuck in the middle of my forehead for a few seconds. After the shock, I cried. I wanted her sweet “Ay, cositas” and “Ya, ya, ya”s that she reserved for the babies Krissy, Joanna, and Teddy. Instead I got “What are you doing awake? Go to sleep!”
Nana, La General (written in 2003 before she passed on)
i look at old photos
and search for the woman
my friends see,
“your grandmother is beautiful,”
“she sits in that wheelchair
like she’s a queen on her throne”
she was beauty queen pretty
but all i saw growing up
were her shiny medals—
clean clothes, clean house,
pots of beans and rice
for her clean army of children
and grandchildren
when she wasn’t ironing, sweeping,
or heating tortillas on the comal
and listening to one of her favorite
mariachi albums,
she’d stand tall
hold a lit marlboro
in her brown-as-her-beans hands
or dangle it from her dusky pink lips
she’d call, “stinkie, bones, barrel!”
when she wanted us to
go to the store
or “tonta, burra,”
when we made a mistake,
she sent us to buy
papas, chile, cilantro,
coriander
when we made a face
not understanding
tomato, onion, and garlic
on credit at the corner store
sent us out to play
in front of the house
or at dolores park
across the street
when she tired of scolding,
“yous kids, pick up your feet!”
on saturday mornings,
she’d grab one little girl
into the bath
as she pulled another of us out,
never turning off the water
and pulling the plug
before all the soap was rinsed
we dried ourselves off
before she turned the towel
into sandpaper,
she cut through each tangle
as she wrestled our “mops” into ponytails,
wrapped them skintight
with sticky rubber bands
one easter, she handed us a bag of dresses
“which one is mine?” we asked,
“the one that fits,” she said
when grandpa mellowed with sickness
and finally allowed her out of the house,
she made beds crisp with her hospital corners,
brought home bottles of cepacol, lysol,
and a few surprises
“here,” she said,
“these are for you”
and handed me books
different from her tv guides
and crossword puzzles
my forgotten reader’s digests
and harlequins
kept me busy at home
until i moved into honors english
and learned that reader’s digest
would never squeeze hamlet
next to “life in the military”
and pride’s castle
would never be taught in a.p.
“i don’t read those anymore,”
i told her one evening,
she never bothered me
with books again
years later, i remember
how nana has always been home for me,
her tamales are my favorite way
to ring in a new year,
and when i drink a cold pepsi-cola
it’s the fifteen of us living on 18th street
and she has come back
from a rare outing alone,
“where’d you go, nana?” we ask,
we believe her when she says,
“i went to see a man about a horse,”
we waited a long time for those horses
today, nana sleeps a lot,
clutches the sheet
or one of our hands
when she’s awake.
we ask, “does it hurt?
are you feeling pain?”
most of the time
she shakes her head no,
nods yes only when the tears
have already answered us.
we feed her the red liquid
hoping to bring her some relief,
knowing her will will always be strong
even if her body is not.
