Memory House

It was the summer of ripe mangoes and late dusk. The mango trees on our backyard stood like black chicken lollipops planted on the ground glazed in rich, thick moonlight, bats swarming around them like starving fruit flies. I sat on a chair behind the railings of the balustrade, a glass of water in one hand, four blue pills in the other. The humid atmosphere clung between the weaves of my night gown, between myriads of deltas on my skin. I am as old as the machines that blow the wind and the pillars that held the sky. Like my shadows, my fears were always there, following me and getting bigger when the sun sets. It took a year before I heard news of her death. Until now, I am wrapped in a cocoon of darkness, longing for that moment where my last breath would be a trace of intimacy as sweet as this late night summer breeze.

Naphthalene balls could've prevented my coats from becoming a continent of molds. My clothes reeked of dampness and sour bread. I spent a good deal of time in the hospital, leaving the air inside my house come alive with different sorts of microorganisms. There's a bird’s nest stuck at the edge of my closet. It was made of hardened mud with bits of dried grass and twigs sticking out of the structure, like those microscopic pictures of the human skin. There were eggshells and feathers on the floor below the nest, circularly shaped and black. I stood on a stool and took a peek inside the nest. The chicks, or what's left of them, were infested with ants and maggots, tunneling through the eye sockets and disproportional beaks.

We had our couch re-upholstered at Muebles de Guatemalteco. We barely had guests at home. We're even barely at home. But she felt like the padding was getting soggy and bedbugs had infested the sides and corners of the couch. Immediately after setting down the groceries on the counter, she ran for the telephone directory and called for an upholstery service. The next day this guy named Renato gave us two books filled with squares of fabric pasted on the pages with labels like Peach #213 and Magenta #420. We had a bit of a fight between Beige #503 and Crimson #475. She said the texture would give her a rash, but then she always sit on her favorite wooden chair instead of the couch. In the end we agreed with the crimson one, after Renato suggested that it would look better because of the couch's deep brown mahogany frame and the pale wallpaper of the room. She gave in just like that, like a crying baby shoved with a baby bottle down the throat. All she said was that our cat would like it. The couch was delivered two weeks after our appointment with Renato.

He partakes in our luncheon of roasted pig and salted eggs. We've never had another person on these occasions, but he seem to create an illusion, a trick that softens the both of us into agreeing, giving in to his physique and intellect. We crave and we dig in. It would start in the mouth: the faithful act of opening and accepting; the tongue: lubricating and executing tastes where it slithers; and the throat -- down where a great deal of magic breaks loose. Perhaps it has something to do with the soul, that these kinds of nourishment seem to be painfully demanding and unending, that they require more than just tangible victuals and executable movements. There's this lingering hunger for companionship. Through time, the cravings change. It was nice having you with us, see you next time! The feast ends in a mess, and the three of us in utter discontent.

I never thought you could drown in a tub of diluted bath soap and lavender oil -- if drowning means being underwater without air inside your lungs, that is. They taught us in camp how to do CPR, and I've watched in TV how dangerous it is to leave your child in a tub with chalky, bubbly water and pleasant smelling oils. There's a loud banging on our front door and mom went to check it. It must've been the smell of the oil that made me a bit drowsy. I took a deep breath and slid myself lower in the water. It was as if I was left to be solidified in a pan of gelatin, neither breathing nor moving. I watched as the ripples spread above me and distorted the ceiling. My heart, pounding against the porcelain, penetrated my ears as the lights flickered above me. There's a faint clue of a door breaking open, and I lay quietly, watching diamonds float towards the surface -- the last bubbles of my drowning.