There is a trail of mollete
crumbs I’ve followed
to a July afternoon
spent in a small house
happily sweating spending
time with my nieces
little girls who want nothing
more than to color
and play with me.
The trail leads me back to my
father sipping instant coffee
reading National Geographic out loud
or sharing stories of his years spent in Korea.
My mother watching Primer Impacto
“Haber que desgracias pasaron”
for Walter Mercado’s mucho amor.
When I still had a skinny body
Filled with youth and agility
petty worry, regret-light
without knowledge that one day
I would stand in my dirty kitchen
following a sour dough crumb
trail that leads
to their absence.
