Buried Heart

When I was a little girl in México,
not more than four or five years old,
my Abuelita would tell me stories
that little girls have always been told.

Of the boom boom boom of the Aztec drum
and the secret soft growth of the maize in the sun,
of the clear fresh water that daily rushes by
with a swoosh swoosh swoosh, then a soothing lullaby.

I lie near Abuelita with my head on her heart,
and I listen lightly as she hums
she brushes my hair with her small, soft hand
and I absorb every story as it comes.

I am told of our two hills that God made long ago
in which are stored mysteries that little girls cannot know
I am told about falling in love for the first time
about the theft of the heart that is not considered a crime.

She said, “Perhaps many hearts are buried in those hills,
for many girls’ hearts have been stolen over the years.
And when a heart is stolen, there is nothing the emptiness fills
except the heart newly received, washed clean by one’s tears.”

In these moments of my childhood the whole world made sense,
because past and present and future are always in the present tense,
with Abuelita telling stories of the Aztecs and of love,
with her hand on my head and her smile always above.

The real story of me begins in this place—
not at Cleveland High School, or Missouri, or even the United States;
I was formed between the giant hills that embrace my little town
My heart is volcano red and my skin is beautifully brown.

Then came the day when I had to leave my little home
with its fresh, clear water and its white frothy foam
my volcano heart was buried in the hills that gave me birth
and the rest of me went abroad— to the other side of the Earth.

It hurts me so much to be away from Abuelita;
I miss her tender stories and her sweet canelita.
Without her heart to lean on, I feel completely lost.
The world no longer makes sense; all my feelings are terribly crossed.

Now we live in this foreign city, which today is covered in snow,
speaking a different language my Abuelita doesn’t know,
and we have all these strange customs that no one else understands
with songs and lives and stories that are also strangers to this land.

People often talk of racism since the Ferguson shooting,
but it doesn’t apply to Hispanics; people don’t care how we are doing.
I am judged for my thick accent or for how I came to this nation;
I hear all the jokes and hateful comments and feel the resulting humiliation.

You know nothing of the life I lived
or that I never wanted to come here.
You know nothing of the tears I wept when I saw my brother die
or how I am still haunted by the sound
of his frightful, helpless cry.

Oh, God, why did you bring me so very far away
when all I ever wanted was in México to stay?
To have my heart stolen by a handsome, loving man
and make my home between the hills and be as faithful as I can.

I sometimes lie on my bed, looking up at the night sky,
dreaming of better times, and it makes me want to cry;
but no longer tears of sadness or frustration at my life,
rather, they are tears of hope at overcoming all this strife.

There are few people who know me—I think I barely know myself,
but I feel this volcano heart in me, flaming my soul back to health.
After all, I was formed in the land of fresh water and of maize,
and I have this sense of courage despite my shortness of days.

This one thing brings me comfort, as I think on what lies before me:
that my heart is still at home, with Abuelita who still adores me.
Though I must continue here, I am ready for whatever may come
because in my heart, I hear the boom boom boom of the Aztec drum.