What they left under my pillow
Over here, it is a custom to leave some money
under the baby’s pillow.
My family is different.
We never keep money for long.
It just slips through our fingers.
We are never short of it either.
My grandmother wished for a never-empty wallet,
just like hers had always been.
When she was out of money,
she kept chili peppers inside.
That was what her soul craved for, she said.
She also gave me the gift of stories.
Hers always had a pepper or two added in
and she could make animals speak in funny voices.
My other grandmother knew spells.
She talked to the stars and they listened.
She knew the spell which could cast your fears into lead.
The lead takes the shape of your fear.
After that, the lead is afraid, not you.
I am sure I could do spells with a bit of practice.
My ancestors came from the land of magic, after all.
What I can do, though, is tell your destiny from coffee grounds.
That is not a bad gift either.
My father gave me his silences
and the maddening habit to tinker with everything
in an attempt to make it better
or just different.
My mother couldn’t give me the silence.
She never had any to give.
She couldn’t stop talking, even in her sleep.
She didn’t give me her looks, or her character.
She gave me her time instead.
She stayed on long after the rest of them had left.
When she had to leave (because everyone does, eventually),
the silence was deafening.
I don’t know who gave me the curse.
It could have been any of them, or all of them.
Maybe someone forgot to cut the cord
and now I am connected to you.
And when you cry, I cry too,
even though I have no idea
who you are
or why you are sad.
