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 the revolutionary hope.
“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.
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