Elena

This is a poem that I read in High School once, and I swore that must have been written about my own mom. This is the kind of poem that makes me wish I were a better writer...

My Spanish isn’t enough.
I remember how I’d smile
Listening to my little ones,
Understanding every word they’d say,
Their jokes, their songs, their plots.
Vamos a pedirle dulces a mama. Vamos
But that was in Mexico.
Now my children go to American high schools.
They speak English.
At night,
They sit around the kitchen table,
Laugh with one another.
I stand by the stove and feel dumb. Alone.
I bought a book to learn English.
My husband frowned, drank more beer.
My oldest said,
“Mama, he doesn’t want you to be smarter than he is.”
I’m forty,
Embarrassed at mispronouncing words,
Embarrassed at the laughter of my children,
The grocer,
The mailman.
Sometimes I take my English book
And lock myself in the bathroom,
Say the thick words softly,
For if I stop trying,
I will be deaf,
When my children need my help.

-Pat Mora