The fog

Mom, was I broken when I was born? 

His eyes refuse to see mine, 

And fate conspires against us. 

Mom, did I break him? 

He told me he was already broken when we met, 

I was too busy protecting myself,

I didn’t even know I could hurt him, 

You forgot to mention others have feelings.

Dad, why can’t I call him?

Why am I being ostracized by him like this?

Where is the forever I was promised?

Why wouldn’t he discuss this with me?

I thought we should talk about our difficulties.

Dad, you and he always talking about diplomacy

As if I am too quiet and need to share my fears,

But now there’s only silence and everything seems unclear.

Mom, where is that secret unguent you told me

That one should apply and would heal him? 

The magic balm that treats deep injuries 

And brings peace and happiness.

Mom, was that I lie for me to stop crying?

I am not a child anymore, you can tell me.

Dad, please come and talk to him,

Maybe if you do it, he might listen.

Dad, why can’t his eyes be opened?

Is it true that he die when I wasn’t seeing?

Or was it me? Was it me the cold body

Left alone to perish in the forest?

Mom, please come and talk to him,

Tell him that we should not fight for this,

Better to hold hands and sign for peace,

Didn’t you say you like him?

Dad, tell me can’t he listen to me?

Did the evil witch block his way to me?

Or did the good one come to rescue him?

Maybe it is me... maybe I can not listen.

Mom, if he is a “poor man”

Am I a pitiful woman?

Dad, dad look at me,

Dad, dad can you see me?

Mom, am I still here or did I leave with him?

Mom, if I speak louder can you hear me?

Dad, whether I died or became invisible...

The fog of the night confuses me.

I couldn’t

 But how could I ever make you understand?

I couldn’t give you the flowers

without you feeling the thorns;

I couldn’t give you the love

without pieces of hate;

I couldn’t give you the health

without some moments of illness;

I couldn’t give you the best of me

without giving you the worst.

I am a coin and both faces count.

Even if I were to hold your hand,

and explain you with tender words,

the reality of my nature and yours,

the shock of my feelings and yours,

the illogic of this life, 

the reasoning and this losing battle.

[Incomplete, maybe]

Isabella

Isabella...

Isabella, please don’t grow up too fast.

Don’t go to the Toddlers class. 

Don’t turn two years old. 

Don’t run yet, you just learned to walk.

Isabella, please don’t grow up too fast.

Don’t stop being picky with your food.

Don’t stop taking long naps.

Don’t stop following Jaleh around. 

Don’t stop coming to me

When I open up my arms. 

Don’t stop smiling at me

When you see me around. 

Don’t stop putting your arms up

When you see me passing by.

Isabella, please don’t grow up too fast.

Let me sit down to play with you one more time,

Let me sing to you this new song I memorized,

Let me tell you that I love you and smile.

Isabella, please just grow up whenever you want.

Don’t listen to my childish fears,

Don’t worry about how I may feel,

Don’t think about your teacher getting sad.

Isabella, please be happy as you grow up.

Seek refugee in your father’s arms,

Ask for help if you are down,

And remember the light even during dark times.

With love, 

For my sweet and little Isabella.

By Madelaine Bustamante

Short Story of a New Beginning

“My Lady, the princess is not in her bedroom,” said the maid unsettled.

“What do you mean?” I asked, for some reason I couldn’t understand a word of what she said.

“She left this.” She said and handed me a note. My sweet child wrote a few words, even with her scarce vocabulary and her clumsy handwriting.

“Mom, I went to the other side of the mountain. I want to find the flying horses”.

A tear rolled down my cheek, I sat down immediately and just thought:

“The hero journey.” The time flies indeed, it seems it was yesterday I first met her eyes.

Haunting

“Sometimes, I am scared of my own memory... My memory and all those sharp razors ready to haunt me the very second I make my mind up to forget; as an evil ghost refusing to leave the spot that made him feel at home, a ghost that I don’t seem to be able to escape from.” She said to me and I understood it was that time of the year. 

I got our clothes ready and looked at her, I always wondered why she used to do this memorial service, I read about it and it is a ritual practiced in Korea and other countries honoring ancestors, but it doesn’t seem to me this has to do with a dead relative, then what was this? I could never figure her out completely, there was always a missing piece to the puzzle. She got ready and told me to go with her. I always follow her silently, I know how annoyed she gets with noise, she says it over and over again in her books and poems: “Silence”, she claims to want silence; I wonder whether she wants it or she was left without options and ended up embracing it way too hard, and that’s why now she was so quiet. 

We started walking stairs up and I am not going to lie, it surprises me how such an old lady can move around so graciously as if life wasn’t as heavy as it claims to be at that age. 

“Should I wait here?” I said before reaching the door.

“Yes, please.” She said. I have been working with her for five years already and I still wonder whether we are friends or not, she can be extremely secretive about some matters, and incredibly open about others. The only thing she ever told me about this annual ritual was “I haven’t really learned to speak the language of those who are gone, but I have learned to listen to their requests”, and all I thought was “How can you listen to their request if you don’t understand what they are saying?”.

I sat down in the stairs and I could listen to her crying. It was always the same, the ghost she couldn’t run away from would still make her cry and she didn’t seem to want to be comforted. I wonder if she is paying some kind of penance. Maybe that religious practice of hers has more in it than what I have learned so far... Maybe I haven’t learned the real essence of it yet and maybe that’s why I don’t understand her.

Broken bridge

Photography taken by Madelaine Bustamante
[Added on August 8, 2020]

Heart, oh heart! Stop this nonsense

Tell me! Where did you lose it?

Let’s track back, maybe we’d find it.

Voices stay quiet I can not see me!

See? I mean, I can’t listen to me…

But do I really mean “to listen”?

You can not listen nor see

In this broken bridge of my soul,

Always taking me nowhere.

— Madelaine Bustamante

Like home

     He laid down next and told me:

- “Do you know, Lorelei? I, often, fantasize about you” And I giggled.

- “Still?” I said playfully, pretending to be unaffected. I knew he used to think a lot about me when we weren’t married, he would expose himself whenever we would have a discussion or whenever he was in a really good mood, as he was about to do at that moment.

- “Yes. When I am at work, I think of you... Especially when it is almost over. I think of what you are doing at home, because in my head you are always at home when I come back. You are taking a nap, you fell asleep reading a book in the living room, you are preparing dinner, you are putting your jacket in the hanger because you arrived a few minutes before me, you are laughing because you were thinking of something funny, you are on the phone with your mom and smiling at me. I like to think about you for many reasons, but when it comes to you and this house, you are the one making it feel like home, therefore when I think of you I feel rested already.” He said and I tried not to laugh, not because it was funny but because I didn’t know what to do with my emotions, with my excitement, with my love and I had to discharge it and I didn’t know anything better than laughing, even if I didn’t laugh and put all of myself on that. “What is that funny?” He asked. 

     And I was already worried about him getting mad, sometimes I just used to miss that he wouldn’t be able to see my face when he tells me something like that because through messages I can always act all collected.

- “Nothing,” I said ashamed of my own behavior. I didn’t really know what was expected from me in such moments, even if I knew, I am not the kind of person that can keep up to no one’s expectations; that’s why I like better people that aren’t interested in me, initially. “And what about those times when you arrive and I am not here yet?” I asked. Yes, that was me ruining the moment because I have a gift for that.

- “I never think of that. I get a bit grumpy if I get here and you haven’t arrived yet.” He confessed.

- “I like to wait for you,” I tried to open up too and turned to my right to see his face, his eyes were fixed on the roof.

- “I know. You say you are a cat, but sometimes you act a lot like a dog instead; and I know you don’t like the comparison but I like dogs, they are warm and kind animals.” He told me and I smiled and hugged him.