Tradition: I Remember Womanhood. {poetry}
{source}
I remember womanhood:
Every night she’d draw his bath
Warm, softly scented bubbles,
not enough to perfume the skin,
kneels down beside him
bruised knees on porcelain tiles,
gentle, silent brushing,
glossy waters,
he shuts his eyes from a long day’s work
she shuts her eyes and lists all that is left to finish
Every evening,
Six o’clock
She draws his bath
Tardiness, water too hot, too cold
A fight exists —
This is tradition — woman takes care of man
Has his bath ready and bathes him
A wife-turned-mother-turned-widow
A girl-turned-daughter-turned-wife
And this is one instant,
she remembers,
When he had passed.
I remember Cuba:
60 years now
A teenager when he had left,
The island of clear waters, white sand, palm trees, orchids and La Mariposa — the butterfly flower,
parrots and people.
People wearing white fabrics, a melody against dark skin,
men in guayaberas, women with fabrics clenching skin in the kitchen,
cooking rice and beans, frying bananas,
everyone restless to taste.
The taste of freedom.
Children free — under the burning sun,
running, fighting and laughing.
Buildings coated in tropical hues, pastels and olives,
Housing old men playing dominoes on the stoops,
Humidity cleansing skin,
Sweat dripping the memories of moments that will continue unchanged,
That annoying rooster that never shuts up
Will echo in the memory of a 60-year-old man,
Scanning Google Earth,
Looking at the decay and rot,
the cracks and dirt,
the people who look the same, same clothes, same cars, same smile —
Sitting on the stoops of fallen buildings,
waiting for a moment where age exists in a society, not a surrounding.
The man follows the camera through the streets he played on,
Ran down,
Dreamt in front of,
And remembers the rooster that never shut up.
I remember a dream forgotten:
Shy girl,
Afraid to smile,
The act felt too vulnerable.
Watched black-and-white movies
During the 1990’s
And dreamt of tap dancing with Shirley,
Legs shuffling in a musical with Grable
Hidden in another land inside a sound stage.
Shooting Cary Grant or Glen Ford for
Doing me wrong —
Fitted suit, tilted fedora and a doe-eyed expression before death of a betrayed love,
Moved along by the crevasse of Astaire’s curved embrace,
Soothed in conversation to the lullaby of Jimmy Stewart’s draw,
Serenaded by Sinatra under a painted moonlight.
I’d hide there, daydream in a time that only exists in reels of film,
Dream of something I could never have
and contrast it with
Bright colors of neon green, reds and purples,
Parachute pants,
goths and crop tops,
Graffiti and Gak,
What, What, What Would You Do,
Real estate commercials,
I’m Jerry Gooze
Cabbage patch dolls, dude , dope and Bart Simpson
Shy girl
Crooked smile,
Gets up and announces,
I’m going to be a star!
But she doesn’t ride a train to Hollywood,
Whatever happened to a dream deferred?
A child was told,
You have brown eyes, not blue, and a gap between your teeth
And this is what she remembered,
When she thinks of her dream forgotten,
She didn’t look the part
told to her by her father.
***
***
Krystal Mireya Masinter is a storyteller. As a child, she enjoyed entertaining families with stories about herself, her family and her dogs. Presently, you can find her excitedly, and quite theatrically, still sharing stories. She enjoys traveling, art, Yoga and animals. Her best friend is her husband. They can be found walking to a coffee shop, enjoying each other’s company, barefoot or wearing sandals, even during winter. She lives in Northern California behind a canopy of redwoods where she enjoys the sacred simplicity of small-town life.
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