Spinster
By Torres-Garcia
Las flores de pared de mi tierra se llaman solteronas, bachelorettes.
Abuelita was twenty-four when they met, two long autumn brown braids laying
in wait over mounds filled with the milk that was to come. And hands so rough,
she always used the back to touch you, except when she patted the tortilla
dough into thick round circles. Only they could feel the calluses caused by
expensive cotton blouses washed by hand under a blaring sun and a pesky bitch
licking her open-toed feet clean.
By her twenty-fourth birthday, scooping up the owner?€™s only child and
mopping her kitchen had set her jaw into a permanent "yes". But Sundays lifted
each corner of her mouth into a wicked long-awaited smile. She would put on
her Sunday?€™s best of hand sewn leftovers, comb her hair into straight shiny
braids contained at the end by red satin ribbons and a final touch of saliva.
She
always took La Calle Principal to church, swinging her hips to the frowned
eyebrows of the elder women covered in black sevellanas. They would peek at
her from behind sharp corners and black shawls held together at the mouth by a
thumb and a pointed index finger. "Mirela comadre, just look at her,
twenty-four and still no husband." Their eyes darted left and right, as if
looking for
any signs of the evil left behind by abuelita?€™s swinging hips. "Mire
comadre, a Don Irineo se le cae la baba. He?€™s drooling like a toothless
baby."" But
as always their whispers chased abuelita?€™s courage away. By the time she
reached the doors of Santa Cecilia, her hips swung awkwardly. Her head hung low
as if all of her sins had accumulated on her chin and suddenly become too
heavy to hold.
This Sunday, mass had already begun. Abuelita stood in the back row
where mother?€™s cradled tired babies and young boys told each other jokes with
their eyes and laughed silently. She never noticed the tall brown man with
flared
nostrils standing next to her or the unhurried glances he slid her way. She
says she remembers nothing of that day except the triangular blue of La Virgen
del Socorro and her tired feet. But as she says it, the twinkle in her eyes
gives her away.
That night at a Quinceanera, grandfather saw her again. She was sitting
in the back row. This time she was on time. The crowds of well wishers had
begun early, and abuelita had stood next to the cazuelas de mole since three in
the afternoon. Her right hand had guided the spoon into the giant pot of
dark red sauce for the last time and hour before grandfather walked into her
life. He found her sitting next to widows draped in black, abuelitas holding
their daughter?€™s sleeping children and solteronas. Solteronas are the
unmarried
women of the pueblo, the ones married men are allowed to ask to dance, the
virgins who are one step away from sainthood.
They only danced one song that night, but when she went to sleep at night
she had a name and face to dream about, Tomas. For a year, grandfather sat
next to her during mass on Sundays. The knowing winks and elbows kicking kept
abuelita?€™s cheeks inflamed, while grandfather gravely stared ahead. Their
only connection was abuelita?€™s right braid tip resting like a sigh on his arm.

RED
By Torres-Garcia

No one knows this. I tell you because you do not know me. Strangers
make the best listeners.
I was seven and we had just moved into our first home made out of thick
mud walls and a low terra cotta tile roof. The backyard was filled with lemon
trees and fig trees and a sickly wrap around wooden fence. My favorite spot
was sitting under a makeshift tent where I invented parties filled with
chocolate or vanilla cakes and all the coca-cola you could ever want. Sometimes
I
would watch as the figs fell from the trees and lay on the ground too heavy and
tired to explode. Every afternoon when my chore of feeding the chickens was
over I would run to Lolita?€™s door and pound it until someone answered it.
Lolita was the only girl in a family of two boys and the only one I knew who had
dolls that giggled when you poked their belly and called you "Mama". She
always answered the door carrying a favorite toy to share with me. Today she
welcomed me with a jump rope wrapped around her hand. Soon she had her twin
brothers Salva and Chato hold each end while we jumped and counted, "A la una
sale
la luna, A las dos sale el sol...". The twins were five years older than she
was. They were identical except for Salva’s green eyes and easy laughter.
Salva was always laughing and Chato was always serious. Both adored Lolita and
did anything she wanted. She wanted to play hide and seek next, so we started
to play hide and seek. At the count of ten everyone ran off in different
directions and Lolita was left to find us. Salva took my hand and led me behind
an old wagon filled with alfalfa straw for the cows and pigs. This old wagon
hid us well fro Lolita. We hid our giggles with our hands. Our eyes met and
smiled. Suddenly my eyes grew big and round. I was confused, the way Padre
Paco confuses me with his sermons on Sundays. Salva?€™s sweaty hand rested on
my
knee. He smiled at me and I smiled back.
For many nights all my dreams were red. His red eyes. His red smile.
His right index finger dangling in front of me with blood slowly sliding down
its sides. Just before I look up at him Lolita finds us and Salva dissapears.

Lunatic Notions
(A poem-June 1995)
By Torres-Garcia

Lunatic notions
filled with let-me-be-screams
lash and scratch
filling and thrilling my head

I will reinvent myself
Escape
Leap out of bounds

I want to run rampant
Loose myself in chaos
And never find my way back

I want to be black and white
male and female
right and wrong
left and right
all and all

I want to be ch a o ti c

My Heroes
(May 1995)
By Torres
My heroes are
the pulsating possibilities
inside us.

The drug addict in rehab.
The alcoholic gone dry-one more day.
The ex-convict?€™s renewed hope.
The writer?€™s finished novel-almost.

My heroes are in the making.
Today.
Now.