Broken is Beautiful Too

This brought to the light of memory what the war I came from broke: a heart, a memory, a home, a future, a peace, a silence, and a life. But it never broke my laugh, my love, or my revolutionary hope.

Drained Batteries

“Para de llorar, it’s just a plant.” My mom would say.

And she’s right, the pot fell and broke, and that’s that.

“We can glue it together,” I’d offer, refusing to throw the pieces away. “We can do something with this.” I wanted to save it, and I was sobbing because I knew this pot was older than I was. Just like how her sewing scissors were as old as her marriage, and how our vacuum could be my older brother.

It was worth something, broken or not, because she kept it for so long and it was her favorite.

She threw it away without a care and a normal kid would be glad they didn’t get in trouble for it. And I was– I never got in trouble for breaking things.

I punished myself enough with the guilt I felt, anyway. I’d be a wreck the whole day after.

View original post 566 more words

Advertisements

One thought on “Broken is Beautiful Too

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s