Writing Life2 min read
Orange Cheese and Purple Grapes
A snack for a toddler, a memory of jelly shoes, and a six-year-old looking for a new mother.
One minute, I am slicing orange cheese and purple grapes for my children, and the next I am six years old, trying to find a new mother because mine is everything but a mother.
The ghetto in Southern California is riddled with bullet holes and run by gangsters. My step-dad is one of them. Mom and Ramón often go missing for days at a time after drinking too much. I wake up alone on the mattress that sits on the stained shag floor. I look around and grab my Rainbow Brite shirt, a pink tutu, and my favorite jelly shoes. I make a short trip to the kitchen, checking every corner for a monster lurking in the shadows, and then I let out a scream. A large cockroach casually walks out of my cereal box like he hasn’t a worry in the world, which he doesn’t. The roaches have taken up colonies in the kitchen and other parts of the house. They’re never evicted. The shelves of the refrigerator hold half-empty cases of beer and a piece of bologna that is half green.
With my magical jelly shoes on my feet, I head out in search of food. I know the rules about walking around the neighborhood. If I hear gunshots, I drop to the ground. It has happened a time or two, but both times my magical shoes kept me safe. That’s what Mom said, anyway.
As I pass a fenced yard, I notice a brown-haired lady sitting on a pink blanket, singing to a freckle-nosed baby. Quietly, I squeeze my thin body between the metal slats and walk up to them. The woman looks at my mismatched clothes and bedhead hair and asks if I want to play. After a loud growl from my stomach, she offers me a small container of orange cheese and purple grapes. I don’t hesitate. I grab the container and shovel the food into my mouth. Her eyes double in size as she watches me devour the snack.
She asks if I know where my mother is, but I never really know unless she’s passed out on a couch or standing in front of me. I shrug, and then I quietly ask, “Do you want to be my mom?”
The voice of my toddler brings me back. I look down at my tiny daughter and set a small container of orange cheese and purple grapes on her highchair tray. She looks up at me and excitedly says, “Mama!”
I wipe my eyes and reply, “Yes, baby. I am your Mama.”